Serpent's Kiss (8 page)

Given her roots in early Egypt, he guessed that Carling would have originally learned her magic from the standpoint of religion. By the nineteenth century, Vampyrism was, in large part, no longer viewed as a mystical curse but as a disease, and her approach to solving the issue was correspondingly scientific.

Her analyses were cool and precise. Upon learning the symptoms of the end stages of the disease and the challenges she would be facing, her attitude was unflinching. How humans lived with the knowledge of their own mortality was beyond him. He tried to imagine what it would be like to learn he was mortal, that his time was measured and must come to an inevitable end, and he simply couldn’t. If he was ever killed, he would go into his death with astonishment and incomprehension. Among all the other reactions she elicited from him, Rune had to admit to a certain grudging admiration for Carling’s courage.

But each research path she took came to a dead end. Her attempts to isolate the infection that caused the disease failed.

So what was wrong? What logic path or experiment had she not considered? He could see nothing among the elegant lattice of thought laid out so meticulously on the pages, and yet something niggled. What was it that bothered him? He wasn’t going to try duplicating any of her processes. He didn’t have the ability to replicate any of the experiments she had chronicled. She was the scientist, the clear expert in this field. He took it as a matter of faith she had been as meticulous in her experiments as she was in her handwriting. If something failed, it failed.

So it was something else that bothered him. Was it a premise or a conclusion?

The light was fading in the kitchen when he finally admitted he needed a break. He pushed away from the table and stretched his stiff neck and shoulders. He had almost a hundred pages left to read, but he had reached a point where he was no longer absorbing the information. Some fresh air might help clear his head, and his body needed to move.

He went outside and walked through the gardens, around the house toward the cliff. It was nearing sunset, and the shadows thrown by the foliage were elongated. The twists and angles of the shadowed tree limbs cut exaggerated dark paths across the lawn.

He walked along the waist-high stone wall that bordered the edge of the cliff, and he looked out over the water. The sun was an enormous blazing orange ball. It seemed to grow larger as it neared the horizon. Like Carling, the island was wrapped in its own strange, solitary existence. This piece of Other land gave the perfect illusion that nothing else existed except for it, the cobalt ocean and the limitless sky. He took in deep breaths of the salted air and pretended he was up there, high in the air, flying over the water until all sight of land disappeared.

Then he felt something ripple, like a breeze fluttering against his skin, and everything shivered and changed. He blinked hard and stared around him, as he tried to figure out what was different.

The flaming sun still lowered in the west, an Icarus who flew too high and died his daily death. The ocean was still cobalt blue, darkening as the daylight faded. He turned. Cliff, wall, garden, shadows, great sprawling, crazy-gothic house . . .

. . . and beyond the house, far in the east, were electric lights, like a spray of stars that had committed mortal sins and had fallen from heaven. They lay strewn in a smoldering carpet on a distant, barely visible land.

Wow, so that’s what it looked like on this side, when the veil between this land and the Bay Area thinned. He strolled eastward along the wall as he soaked up the strange sight. The illusion of land was immense, sketched in transparent lines across the entire east. Through it the ocean was clearly visible. The double horizons were dizzying.

“Sentinel?” Rhoswen’s sharp call came from the direction of the kitchen door, the eastern side at the back of the house. “Sentinel!”

The Vampyre sounded upset, even urgent. He broke into a jog. By the time he rounded the corner, he was at a flat-out run.

Rhoswen stood in the doorway, Rasputin tucked under one arm. The powder puff with teeth broke into a frenzied barking when he appeared. Out of patience for the dog’s histrionics, Rune bent, bared his teeth and growled a deep-throated warning.
“Behave.”

Rhoswen stared at him. Rasputin froze, his frenzy stopped in midbark. The whites of his eyes showed around shiny black irises. He looked like a startled stuffed animal.

“That’s better,” Rune muttered grimly. He patted the little dog on the head. “Good boy.” He straightened. “Now, what’s wrong?”

“I just woke up a few minutes ago,” Rhoswen said. Her hair was mussed, and she had a crisscross of pillow lines on one cheek. “I went to check on Carling. I thought you should know—she’s faded again.”

Rune grew grimmer. He said, “Show me.”

FIVE

R
hoswen strode quickly through the house. Rune kept Rffortless pace beside her, his long legs eating up the distance.

The oral histories in Carling’s research stated that the mysterious episodes increased in frequency and intensity the closer a Vampyre came to the end. He wasn’t sure yet what “the end” was, or what happened once a Vampyre reached it. It was possible Carling herself didn’t know, or at least she hadn’t at the point in her research when he had taken a break from reading.

Carling’s text was chronological in nature, and one of the things she was meticulous about was recording the date and time of each event or discovery. She did not leap ahead or fall behind. Whenever she made reference to something earlier in her notes, she did so in a kind of shorthand by simply notating the date/ time. It was a simple enough method of cross-referencing short of using a software program for footnotes, although it slowed his progress down as he had to flip back and forth through the entries to get the full gist of things.

Rune asked Rhoswen, “How often are these episodes occurring?”

“Almost daily,” she said in a strangled voice. “It’s why I hate so very much leaving her alone. What if she goes into an episode when she’s cooking for the damn dog, or when she has taken off the spell that protects her from the sun? She sits so close to the edge of shadow when she does that. What if she has an episode and then the angle of the sun changes?”

He swore under his breath. Daily episodes weren’t a good sign. In one of Carling’s oral histories, one Vampyre had reached such a point and he was gone in a matter of weeks. Had he simply collapsed into dust? Usually mortal creatures struggled with death. Their hearts went into arrhythmia and their breathing became labored. If Vampyres were killed by the sun, they burst into flames first and expired in horrible agony. When they were killed in other ways, they disintegrated into dust.

He and Rhoswen reached a flight of stairs and took them three at a time. Rasputin rode silently under Rhoswen’s arm, his small foxy head swiveling to track Rune’s movements.

Rune said, “From here on out, we don’t leave her alone. Agreed?”

She nodded. “Agreed. Sentinel, maybe I haven’t seemed very welcoming since you arrived, but I want you to know—I’m glad you’re here.”

Rhoswen didn’t seem very welcoming at the best of times, but he shouldn’t get snarky on her just when she appeared in need of a moment.

Instead, he said, “Don’t sweat it. Just stop calling me Sentinel, would you? It makes me feel like some kind of flea and tick repellent.”

The Vampyre darted a quick startled glance at him. He winked at her, and she coughed out an uncertain laugh. At the top of the stairs, Rune put a hand on her arm. When she stopped, he gave her a steady look that had nothing of humor in it.

“We should be prepared for the possibility that Carling won’t survive,” he said. Saying it aloud made his muscles clench, but he forced himself to speak calmly. “But I promise you, we’re going to do our damnedest to see that she does.”

Rhoswen’s mouth shook. “Thank you.”

He nodded and let go of her arm. She turned and led the way down the second-story hall, toward a pair of carved wooden doors at the hallway’s end. Rhoswen started to open one door, and sunlight—what looked like sunlight—spilled through the widening gap from the room beyond.

Rune didn’t pause to think. He grabbed Rhoswen’s shoulder in a hard grip and yanked her back, away from the light.

She stumbled and clutched the dog close as she looked around wild-eyed. “What is it? What happened?”

He said, his voiced edged, “I’m sorry. Look, it’s a knee-jerk reaction. That looks like sunlight, but it can’t be because the sun is setting and the house is almost dark. What is it?”

“What are you talking about?” Rhoswen stared at him. “What light?”

He took a deep breath. Let it out again. He gestured toward the half-open door. “There is light spilling out of that room, a very bright, strong yellow light like sunlight in the middle of the day. Are you telling me you don’t see it?”

“No I don’t,” Rhoswen said. Now the whites of her eyes were showing too, just like the dog’s. She looked nothing like her usual sleek composed self. She looked disheveled, frightened and very young. “It’s quite dark, actually. I just figured since you’re Wyr, you would have good eyesight and you’d be okay with that.”

“Oh-kay,” said Rune. He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. “Let’s go carefully here.”

He stepped toward the door and pushed it wider open slowly, watching to make sure that none of the light he saw—or thought he saw—spilled directly onto Rhoswen. The hallway brightened further as the door opened. It still looked like sunlight to him, and it felt saturated with magic.

He drew a line through the air with a finger. “This is where the light that I see ends. I want you to cross that with just the tip of your finger.”

Now she looked at him as if she suspected he was crazy, but she did as he asked and extended her forefinger until it crossed the demarcation he had shown her. They both stared at her finger, which remained unburned.

“Do you still see the light?” Rhoswen asked.

“As plain as day,” he told her. “But at least it doesn’t appear you are in any danger of burning from it. We should still go carefully.” He gazed at her as he considered. “Do you have Power or magic ability?”

She shook her head. “I have only what every Vampyre has, which is enough for telepathy or making a crossover to an Other land. It’s a by-product of the virus. When I was human, I was a complete dead-head.”

A dead-head, when used the way Rhoswen meant it, referred to someone who had no Power or magic ability whatsoever. It did not refer to a Grateful Dead fan. If Rhoswen didn’t have much magical ability, then she didn’t have many magical defenses. Rune shook his head. “Right. Well, magic is spilling out of that room, just like sunlight, and I’m not inclined to trust any of it. I want you to stay here.”

The Vampyre’s chin firmed. “Carling might need me.”

He refrained from rolling his eyes. It wasn’t his responsibility if Rhoswen chose to risk her life, and who knew, maybe she was right and Carling
would
need her. He said, “Fine, but I’m going in first.”

Rhoswen stayed behind him as he stepped into the doorway, into both magic and light. The soles of his boots landed on something shifting and pliable. He looked down. That looked like sand. It felt like sand.

If it walked, talked and quacked like a duck, if it tasted like a duck when he caught and ate it . . .

He took another step, and another. The barest outline of a shadowed room surrounded him. Superimposed upon the room was a brighter, hotter reality. He looked up and squinted into a pale blue, cloudless sky that held a burning yellow-white sun.

“Sentinel?” Rhoswen called him again. This time she sounded panicked. “Rune!
You’re fading.
”

He could just see her. She was a pale, insubstantial ghostlike sketch, as was the rest of the room. He called back, “I’m here. Can you hear me?”

“Barely,” she shouted. She sounded far away. “You’re disappearing right in front of me. What’s happening?”

“I don’t know,” he shouted back. “I’m going to look around and see what I can find out. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“I’d much rather you didn’t,” she called. “I would like for you to come back now, please.”

But the mystery that lay spread out all around him was too compelling to ignore. Ahead of him was desert, and greenery, and the blinding glint of sunshine on distant water. Behind him was Rhoswen, the doorway and the island.

Son of a bitch, this kinda felt like a crossover to an Other land. Crossovers were the dimensional passageways that lay between Earth and Other lands. They had been formed when the Earth had been formed, when time and space had buckled. Crossover passageways followed physical faults in the landscape. The crossover passage that led to the island was part of a fissure at the ocean’s bed. He had never before heard of one existing in a manmade structure, such as in a second-story bedroom in a house.

But this also felt different somehow than a normal crossover. He fumbled for a way to describe it to himself, to understand what he was sensing. It felt . . . bent, as if it turned a corner that other crossover passages didn’t. And if this was a crossover point, why didn’t Rhoswen sense it and cross over as well? Was it because of her lack of Power? Carling had a hell of a lot of Power. He would have thought she would have noticed by now if there was a dimensional passageway in the middle of her bedroom and considered it worthy of some mention. If it was a crossover passage, where did it cross over to? Or was he caught in some kind of elaborate illusion?

And where, in all of this mystery, was Carling?

He rubbed the back of his neck. He had always thought he was more of a Cheshire Cat than an Alice, but this really was curiouser and curiouser.

There was only one way to try to understand it.

He strode forward, into the full light of a scorching desert day.

A
t first he heard nothing but the vast, lonely howl of the wind as it sang its eternal song. Then the harsh, wordless cry of a bird sounded overhead. Heat hammered down and sand blasted him in the face. He paused to pick three landmarks to triangulate his position so he could return to this point if it really was a crossover passageway and the area ended up being his only route back to the house.

He put at his twelve o’clock a sere, squat bluff that rose above the rest of the landscape. That put the silvery glimmer of water at ten o’clock, a little too close to the bluff for the best triangulation, but it would have to do. He looked over his right shoulder, and saw nothing but desert dunes. He picked the tallest dune, at five o’clock. The dune would be useless for long-term navigation, of course, since the wind and the dunes would shift over time, but hopefully it would do for his purposes. He didn’t plan on staying . . . wherever here was . . . for very long.

Then like discarding a suit of clothes, he let his human facade fall away as he shifted into his Wyr form. He stretched massive wings out and crouched, his lion’s tail lashing, and he leaped into the air to fly through the brutal heat toward the bluff. Usually when he flew in an urban area, he cloaked himself to avoid complications with air traffic control systems, but this scene looked rural enough that he didn’t bother.

His flight gave him a bird’s-eye view of the land. The watery shimmer became a great, winding river bordered on either side with lush green vegetation and gold fields of grain that came to an abrupt end at a bordering desert.

Realization battered him. Hells bells. Unless he was very badly mistaken, that had to be the Nile. He had flown the length of the Nile several times in years gone past. He had seen it in all three stages of its ancient flood cycle, before the Aswan Dam in 1970 brought all seasonal flooding to an end. With the fields ripe with rich barley and wheat, this looked like
Shemu
, the Season of the Harvest, which fell roughly between the months of what would be May and September on a modern calendar.

He banked and flew in a wide circle as he scoured the landscape. With his eagle-sharp eyes, he could see for miles.

He saw no power lines, no satellite dishes, no motored boats on the river, no vehicles, nor any paved or gravel roads. No modern irrigation techniques or machinery. No plumes of smoke from distant refineries. No airplanes.

Simple dwellings made of mud-baked bricks dotted the riverbanks. A plume of dust rose from a group of brownskinned men traveling on horseback along the western bank. They were over a mile away. From what Rune could see, they wore
shentis
, or loincloths, and were armed with copperheaded spears and wooden shields.

Okay, he was still looking for something to make sense here.

He inclined his eagle’s head to study the land below him.

He saw a tiny upright figure, staring directly up at him with eyes shaded, about five hundred yards away from a cluster of eight buildings. A bundle of grain and a knife lay on the ground at the figure’s feet.

And here he was with no Rand McNally atlas or GPS system. Not only did Rune like chick flicks and women’s fashions, but he also knew how to stop and ask for directions when he was lost. Plus he was secure in his masculinity. He might be one of the world’s only four gryphons, but he figured if you added those qualities up with all the rest, it made him unique as all shit.

Keeping the figure in sight, he slowed into a spiraling descent.

It was either a child or a small adult. Well okay, if he suspended all disbelief and just went on empirical evidence (which was patently impossible, but he was really trying to go with the flow here), any adults he might encounter would also be small, at least smaller than those in the twenty-first century.

The figure wore a
shenti
as well, and nothing else. The grubby scrap of cloth was wrapped around narrow hips. Child or adult, every line in the figure’s posture shouted amazement, but at least it wasn’t running away in a panic. So far, so good.

Rune shapeshifted as he landed about twenty yards away. He paused to give the other figure time to react. He was betting it was a female child. She appeared frozen in shock. Her skin was darkened from the sun into a rich nut brown. She had a light delicate bone structure, dirty feet, and a small rounded belly under a narrow rib cage.

The child’s tangled dark hair had rich auburn glints in the sun, as if she was lit with a deep, internal fire. Her hand fell to her side, and he saw that she had long, lustrous almond-shaped dark eyes that glittered with sharp intelligence.

Recognition kicked him in the teeth. Her immature features already showed the promise of a spectacular bone structure. Her mouth hung open, the childish curve of lips hinting at the sensual beauty that was to come.

Holy shit.

“Hello darling,” he whispered, staring.

She was a breathtaking impossibility. He couldn’t be looking at the child Carling had once been, but somehow he was. Was he caught in her memories? How could that be? It all felt so real, it couldn’t be an illusion. Could it?