Iona Portal (15 page)

“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 the 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?