Between (30 page)

“A mission, then,” he said. “A sacred trust.”

“Yes.”

“A thing you are prepared to die for?”

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

“I can’t protect you from her. I will help you where I can, but I cannot act against her.”

“I understand.”

She flinched as his voice lashed out. “How could you possibly understand? I hate the dragons with every drop of my life’s blood but can’t raise my sword against them. Atrocities of injustice day after day. My men, brave men like Duncan, dying for doing what is right. And I stand by and can do nothing.” He was breathing hard, his face twisted with emotion. “I lack the courage to die, to end my role in this once and for all—”

Vivian forgot that he was the Warlord. Forgot the scars and the sword and the power he wielded here. She placed her hands on either side of his face, looking up into the eyes that belonged to him, but also to Zee.

“You are an honorable man. A good man.”

A tremor ran through him and he pulled away from her touch as though it burned him. His chest heaved. “No woman has touched me in years. They shudder and run when they see me. They fear me. Even you—”

“Because your eyes are the eyes of a man I know, but your face is so changed.”

“I don’t disgust you, then?”

“You have the most beautiful eyes in all the worlds,” she whispered. “I believe you have the soul to match.”

He shook his head. “It’s a dark thing, my soul.”

“I don’t believe that is true.” They stood, not quite touching. His big hand grazed her bruised cheek, ever so gently, and then cupped her chin, lifting it so he could scrutinize her face.

Vivian’s heart hammered so loudly she was certain he could hear it; her knees trembled.

“I have dreamed you,” he said at last. “Night after night, for as long as I can remember.”

Vivian tried to find the words to tell him that she had not only dreamed him, that she had met him in another world, another time, but her lips refused to move.

His head bent toward her, his eyes on her lips, and she closed her own eyes in expectation. A slight pressure warm against her hair, and then cool air where the warmth of his hand had been. She opened her eyes to see him walking away.

He bent and lifted Poe’s body in his arms. “Come.”

“Where?”

“Back to your room. In the castle.”

“I—”

“There’s nowhere safe for you in this kingdom,” he said. “But I believe the safest place will be in that room, with two of my guards at the door.”

No grabbing, clutching hands; no demanding. He only stood looking at her, the dead penguin cradled in his arms. Vivian went with him. In silence, they walked toward the castle. When they reached the oak tree, Zee stopped and laid Poe gently down in the grass.

“Wait,” he said.

She watched as he sliced through the ropes that held the swinging bodies; they hit the earth with a heavy thud, first one, then the other. Vivian shuddered and swallowed back a wave of nausea. Zee bent and straightened the crumpled limbs, folded their hands over their breasts. It was too late to close the eyes, and they stared blankly up at the merciless moon.

The Warlord placed the penguin beside the fallen men. “I will see that he is buried, with honor.”

“Thank you.” Tears tracked her cheeks for the first time in this long and difficult day.

“Now,” he said, “about the key.”

Vivian had been beginning to relax a little, to feel safer, sheltered, in his presence. She sucked in a breath, backed away from him, flicked open the blade of what now seemed a pitiful little knife.

His expression was unreadable, but he stood still, did not reach for his sword or come after her. “I’m not going to take it from you,” he said. “But she has enlisted many to look for it. It is dangerous for you to carry it so.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

“I could carry it for you.”

“I don’t—” She heard the tremble in her voice, stopped and steadied herself before going on. “I don’t even know what it’s for.”

“Nothing good,” was all he said. “Do you wish me to carry it?”

The temptation was great, but it came down to this—all Jehenna need do to take the key from the Warlord was to command it. Vivian could, at least, resist the Voice. Reluctant, feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders, she shook her head. “I need to carry it myself. To destroy it if I can.”

He nodded, as though this answer came as no surprise. “Come—you are cold and weary. Let me take you back to your room. And then I will come back and tend to these.”

W
ith a growing sense of unreality Zee stood beside the open trapdoor. The cat scampered past him, descending rough wooden stairs, little more than a ladder. Zee followed. A cramped earthen crawl space led into a tunnel with a floor of packed dirt. Wooden timbers supported a rough ceiling too low for him to stand upright. Dim lightbulbs swung from naked wires.

Bent nearly double, Zee followed the cat. She scampered playfully ahead, pausing to crouch and then leap at unseen objects. Zee’s back ached with the constant stooping; the sword bumped awkwardly against his thigh.

All told, the tunnel ran for what he guessed was a good half mile before ending with another rough wooden ladder. When he reached it, the cat sat on the top rung, waiting. Above her head, another trapdoor. Zee gave it a hard shove and it opened into a spotless, well-lit garage. A workbench ran across all of one wall, holding toolboxes and a telephone. An old radio broadcasted country music.

Most of the interior was occupied by a vintage VW hippie van, painted in technicolor flowers and peace signs. A familiar van—George Maylor had been driving this identical rig ten years ago, on the day he bailed Zee out of jail.

The keys were in the ignition. A case of bottled water, a
box of energy bars, sealed packages of dried fruit and real jerky were neatly stored in the back, along with blankets, pillows, and other emergency items.

The van offered an escape. He couldn’t go back to the cabin, not with the cops there, and they might be watching it for a good long while. As far as he could figure, he had two choices: find a place to hide out or keep looking for Vivian, and between those two options the choice was clear.

Not that this was simple in any way. He had no idea where or how to find her. Plus, if he pulled out of the garage now the cops might see him and follow. Maybe he’d do better, after all, to just stay put right here for a day or two.

Schrödinger stared up at him out of scornful, unblinking green eyes.
Coward.

“Hypocrite,” Zee muttered. “I don’t see you taking any risks.”

The cat meowed and coiled around his ankle, purring, then stalked over to empty food and water bowls under the workbench. Zee found a five-gallon jug of water and a bag of cat food. He filled the bowls and bent to pat the cat. “What if I don’t get back? I don’t want you trapped in here and starving to death.”

There were no windows in the garage he could crack open, but a brief search revealed a cat door leading outdoors. That was that, then. At least she would be able to get outside to fend for herself.

Zee turned off the light switch, plunging the garage into darkness. It would be dark outside by now. A glow of light when he opened the garage door would be equivalent to standing on the roof and shouting through a loudspeaker. He fumbled his way to the door and lifted the latch. He’d half-expected it to creak and groan with disuse, but the action was smooth and noiseless.

More darkness, lit enough by moonlight to let him see a narrow track, screened by trees. In the distance, red and blue lights strobed, rhythmic, persistent. Leaving the vehicle lights off, Zee backed out of the garage, between the tree sentinels, and onto the road. For a mile or two he
drove without headlights, watching the rearview mirror for signs of pursuit, but nothing moved, other than the occasional deer and a careless skunk, and he was soon deep into uncharted territory.

Without any logical progression of thought, he found himself heading for Finger Beach. As a plan it wasn’t much, but it beat driving aimlessly without a destination point. And if he was looking for some sort of paranormal activity, the beach was the most likely place to find it.

About an hour into the drive he was wishing the old man had stocked a case of cola along with the water; a little caffeine would have been more than welcome. In an effort to stay awake, he drove with the windows down, shivering in the cold wind. Music would have been good, but there was no reception over the pass and there was no CD player in the ancient van.

Hours later, Zee rolled into the parking lot at Finger Beach, bone weary and anxious. A harebrained scheme, coming here. He had no contingency plan, no purpose to his life beyond finding Vivian and saving her if he could.

The moon rode high in the sky. Constellations arched overhead in the old familiar configurations. They comforted him—the sheer vastness of them, the knowledge that they had been there when life first began on this planet and would still be there when it ended. That when his small life was over, something beautiful would still shine in the sky above him.

The pungent scent of pine filled his nostrils as he stepped out of the van and breathed in deeply of the cool night air. His footsteps crunched on the gravel of the parking area, rustled through dry grass before the gritting of sand alerted him that he was on the beach.

The Finger glowed with a dull red light of its own, and he paused for a moment as he always did when he ventured down here, to acclimatize to the sensation of raw power that flooded the place.

One of the thin places, he thought, where the fabric of reality might be breached. If science fiction stories had any truth, if there were doors from one world into another, this
would certainly be one of them. Whatever had happened to Vivian, whoever the witch woman was, it involved some explanation beyond what physics and science could tell him. If there was such a thing as a Dreamshifter, then it made sense that there were gates leading to other realities.

He shivered a little at the idea of things crossing boundaries from dream into reality. People spoke of dreams coming true as if this would be a good and wonderful thing. They tended to forget that nightmares were dreams as well.

Tonight the stone felt portentous, threatening. Zee approached with caution, opening himself to the currents of energy, letting them find their way through his body and then ground back into the earth. Most people fought it, but he’d always figured that if the old tales were true, fighting the power was what made people crazy. Treat it like a dream, let it flow through you but not touch you, and you’ll be okay.

He hoped sincerely that his theory was right.

In a sudden flare of red light, an enormous white bear materialized beside the stone.

Zee was not prepared. An instant of hesitation and disbelief almost cost him his life. In the nick of time he ducked and rolled, a massive paw whistling past his scalp.

Surging back onto his feet, Zee drew the sword.

The bear reared up onto its back legs, mouth open in a spine-chilling roar to reveal teeth far too long and sharp. Swinging its deadly paws, it lunged.

Zee ducked, sidestepped, just out of reach of the lethal blows. At first the sword felt awkward, as if his mind remembered the way of it but his body did not. But as he danced away from certain death, his muscles began to remember and he drew first blood, a bloom of crimson against the whiteness of one of the paws.

Bellowing pain and rage, the bear crashed down onto three legs, swinging its head with jaws wide open. Zee feinted sideways, not quite fast enough. Something burned like fire down the side of his face, caught his shoulder. The blow flung him backward and he fell hard, his head bouncing against a rock.

Half-blinded by blood, dizzy and dazed, he slashed upward on instinct, felt the blade connect with flesh. Another bellow of rage and the creature retreated.

The world rocked and spun as he got to his feet. Pain hammered in his head with an intensity that twisted his stomach. His limbs felt loose and only half under his control. His left arm hung limp and useless from the damaged shoulder. There was a lot of blood.

The bear was not unscathed. One side of its face was laid open to the bone, a flap of flesh and fur dangling down over the jaw. It shook its head from side to side, spraying blood, roaring its agony and rage.

And then it came for him. Swift, lethal, huge. A death machine of muscle and teeth and claws.

Zee braced himself. He tightened his grip on the sword. Waited, timing the stroke. An instant before the bear struck, he swung with all the strength he had left. A fountain of hot blood burst over him as he was borne to the ground, crushed beneath the creature’s weight. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Blood, his own or the bear’s, ran into his mouth, blinded his eyes. He braced himself for jaws on his throat, but the bulk on top of him lay still.

The bear was too heavy. He couldn’t move. It crushed his chest; he couldn’t draw a full breath. His face burned like fire.

Pain and lack of oxygen took their toll, and he slid away into blackness.