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Chapter Fourteen

Charon reached beautiful, not-quite downtown Glastonbury in his anonymous rental, pulling into an empty car park and killing the lights. The sky had been clear all day, and it promised to continue through the night, which was just beginning to descend. Few lights showed in the town, which like many in the countryside, really did roll up the sidewalks after dark, much to the annoyance of the American tourists. Well, too bad for them.

He wanted to rest before taking on the last leg of his trip, which would indeed be on his legs, unfortunately. God, he was tired. It had been one hell of a long haul from leaky Niagara, first by train, then that snail-paced bus trip, the other train south to Atlanta, an endless parade of paranoid security people looking for terrorists—and himself, of course—then the flight across the Pond.

The plane trip to get to London damn-near killed him, even in first class. All that sitting in place and the brainless in-flight movie and nauseating food. He'd all but taken up residence in the forward crapper, dropping his cookies in the stainless-steel well, flushing it away with the chemically hygienic blue water, the astringent, overly sweet smell of which only encouraged him to repeat the performance.

The flight attendants became aware of his illness, and he was hard pressed to stave off their well-intentioned offers to help until they finally noticed the bastard in the row ahead of him. When the man keeled over bleeding that got them nicely freaked. That admittedly risky feeding plus their combined tension, horror, and sick worry kept Charon sustained for the rest of the flight. Nice floor show, too. They'd pulled a doctor out of coach to look after things.

Imagine! A doctor flying coach. After the mint they charged me and for nothing, the damned quacks. One idiotic test after another just to tell me I'm gonna die. Well, screw that, them, and all their cousins.  

Man, if the flight crew knew the truth of what he was planning they'd have gutted him with their pre-packaged plastic forks, then cracked open the rest of the plane's mini-bottles of tasteless champagne to celebrate. Too late for them, now.

After that, Charon was forced to have a full collapse in a London hotel under his latest and possibly last necessary alias. It had proved a good cover, slicking him past customs and all those watchful cops easily enough when combined with his metaphysical camouflage. Even his case full of pills was no problem, though of course anybody could see he was sick. But he was well aware that he was being hunted by a specialized bunch that made the CIA look like a knitting guild. Can't have them putting a foot into things at this stage.

His illness was taking a visible toll on him, even with the near-constant feeding by using the Grail to channel the resident psychic energies. In the hotel's bathroom mirror he noticed his ribs showing. Not something he'd seen since he was a scrawny teen centuries ago. His face flesh hung loose on emerging cheekbones and what a terrible color his skin was under the tropical tan. No real color at all, just veins showing through the thinning skin. Have to do something about that. Tonight. While he was still able.

He slumped in the car seat, hugging the Grail close, using it to funnel in random energy to keep him going. Not too much to get himself noticed, just enough for a nice buzz and to build up reserves. Save the Spielberg effects for later when they were needed.

There was a good old full moon coming tonight. That additional energy oughta put a corncob up the Goddess's ass. Once he was done, she wouldn't know what hit her.

He'd wait an hour past sunset, then start up the tor.

Driving the unmarked white van, Bourland, Iona, Richard, and Michael arrived at Sabra's wilderness cottage well before noon. Strictly, it was not in a true wilderness, but distant enough from neighbors for Sabra to enjoy the isolation. There were several acres to the property, very private. Iona walked around to the backyard, which was profuse with large trees and virgin snow. The trees formed a circular clearing some ten yards across; in its center was a stone construction that more mundane eyes might take for a homemade barbeque. It was cone-shaped, made of concrete and native stone, about waist-high, and a yard across at the base. Sabra had built it herself soon after she'd moved in. Its bowl-shaped crown was blackened from past fires. There was no sign of a cooking grill.

"It's good," said Iona. "Let's go in."

The police had shut things up, and Bourland sent people from Richard's security company out to repair the damage to the alarm system. He used his own key to let them in, entering the code into the wall unit before it went off.

Richard feared this moment, but decided it was easier to look at Sabra's things with the others along, easier to think that she was just in the next room. Everything was as she'd left it when she'd bolted out the morning of the shared vision, a few unwashed dishes in the sink, a book she'd been reading open across the arm of a chair.

Michael was hungry. He and Iona poked around the kitchen. She found eggs and still-fresh peameal bacon and asked if he wanted scrambled or over-easy.

"Both," he said, taking his usual chair at the kitchen table.

Bourland touched Richard's elbow, and they went to the small living room. The place had central heating, but that had been turned down. He went to adjust the thermostat and the room began to warm. Bourland uncharacteristically fidgeted, pulling his gloves off, shoving both in the same pocket, taking them out for a look, then shoving them in again.

Richard had confidence in Iona and Michael, but how would Bourland handle this? His inexperience in Otherside matters would work against him; it might overwhelm him. Richard wanted to leave him out. Iona insisted, though. She'd first met him when he, Richard, and Sabra had taken Michael on a visit to Kingcome Inlet. They'd found common ground teaching Michael to night fish.

"What's this about, Richard?" Bourland asked. "She didn't explain much of anything."

A damned good question. "It's a way to perhaps stop Charon."

Bourland held to a straight face, but his heart began to drum loud enough to be audible to human ears. Was it terror or anticipation? "How?"

"The ceremony will cause us to travel in spirit to where he is."

"In spirit?" His tone lowered. Skepticism. "What will that be like?"

"Unsettling," said Richard. "But you get used to it. Just accept what you see and feel as reality and respect it."

"And if I don't?"

"It can kill you. There . . . and here."

"I see. You've done this before?"

"Yes. The last time was to help Michael."

"I don't know as I'm quite the right man for this. What am I supposed to do?"

"Be there," said Iona cryptically, looking in from the kitchen.

"For what?"

She shrugged and went back to frying eggs. Somehow, that had been a very significant-seeming shrug.

Bourland looked at Richard, who also shrugged. "There is no answer since the future is in flux. More so now because of what Charon's been doing. He's upset balances, God knows why, because he must be aware there are always consequences when you muck about with such forces."

" 'Eating the light'? Feeding off psychic energies and such to fight his cancer?"

"To fight off death. He should have been gone by now. Once he missed his sell-by date . . ."

Bourland snorted. "I'm not sure if any of this even exists, but if you're all taking it seriously, then I shall, too. At least for today. By tomorrow I want everything sane and plodding along as usual in the normal sort of madness. But until then I'll do whatever it takes to kill the bastard."

On that, Richard knew, Bourland could be entirely relied upon.

Michael must have looked on Iona as a surrogate for Sabra, for they spent the time over his lunch talking. Richard wanted to listen in, but intuition told him to keep clear. He wanted to speak with her, too, perhaps to find some ease for his own inner pain, but there would be no chance. Iona said they would have to take action this day, while the moon rose over distant Glastonbury.

"The time difference can be confusing," she said. "It's a big world, but we have friends." She knew about the Stonehenge group's healing ceremony and the villagers convergence at Chichén Itzá. He'd not told her about either of them. For all they knew similar ceremonies might be going on in other places as well.

"Will time as we reckon it really matter?" asked Michael.

"It will where he is, and that's where we must be."

Iona was serene, Bourland restive and worried, Richard determined, and Michael . . . sad.

"Why?" Richard asked.

The boy shrugged, the gesture must have been contagious. "Change is coming. I like things just as they are—were—anyway, it's all going to be different. Me and Dad, me and you. With Aunt Sabra not being here . . ."

"Have you dreamed of her?" Sometimes Michael dreamed of his mother and sisters. It was a source of comfort for him, had helped much in his healing. Richard wanted some crumb of that for himself.

"Not that I remember." He saw Richard's disappointment. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"I know you want to talk with her."

"We all do." The silence in his mind was still terrible. For nearly all his long life she had always been there. While the brief lives around him flourished and swiftly died Sabra continued on. With him. She was his one constant in an existence rife with disappointments, betrayals, joys, and disasters. He could bear anything, survive anything so long as she was breathing the same air. Half his soul had been ripped from him, and unlike a physical wound he would never quite bleed to death from it.

That would be a happy release.

Sharon Geary jerked awake when her drifting body thumped up against the side of her snaky protector.

Newton's whatever-the-number Law: a body in motion stays in motion until acted upon by . . .  

Or something like that. The short version being that Kukulcan was slowing down, while she in her hollow space continued forward. She was very glad he'd not slammed hard on the brakes or there might have been a nasty collision for her.

She pushed off and sought out her long, thin peephole to the outside. Very bright there, now. She'd fallen asleep—hard to fathom—watching the rainbow lightning ripping across infinity.

"How goes it for ye, sir?" she called, expecting him to widen the opening so she could have a better look. She could just see his massive head in its usual place, above and to the left of her. How long had he held himself so carefully still in this position? Did gods get muscle cramps? She checked her watch and noticed the second hand wasn't moving.

Uh-oh. Was that a bad thing? She shook it. The battery was no more than a month old. Maybe the lightning had buggered it; lots of energy playing about out there, might have been like being next to a magnet. She had a friend at school who killed watches if she wore them for more than a few days. "Magnetic personality" they'd teased and always knew what to buy her for birthdays and Christmas. None of the teachers said it was possible, but the watches, electronic and mechanical alike, died all the same.

Sharon peered through the opening, wary for giant bugs, but seeing bright light. That distant spiral he'd been heading toward . . . was this what it might look like close up? She determinedly did not think about black holes, maelstroms, or even bathtub drains.

Kukulcan seemed to be too occupied to pay her any attention, and anything that got such a level of focus from him was likely to be important.

She resumed her place, anchoring as best she could to observe, her heart speeding up. Something was going to happen, or so her gut told her, not her Sight, not her reason.

"Tick, tick, tick, tick," she muttered, green eyes wide.

Toronto, the Present

Richard brought kindling and shavings from the woodshed, arranged them in the bowl-shaped depression in the top of the cone, and touched a firelighter with a match to get things going. It certainly beat striking a spark off flint. God, those days when after your sword a tinder box was your most important tool. He used to collect the things, acquiring a new one whenever someone made an improvement.

Once the kindling caught, he added several pieces of dry firewood. Oak, he absently noticed. They soon caught as well. The flames were very high and merry under the lowering sky, yet small against the forest darkness. The fire seemed to light only the immediate area; the surrounding trees pressed close, as though seeking warmth. Richard's shadow, made large, moved black against their trunks like an unfriendly spirit.

Iona threw on piles of sage and sweet grass and soon thick, fragrant smoke flooded the clearing.

Richard, Bourland, and Michael took their places two yards from the cone at three of the four compass points. Sabra had long marked them out with little stones, but those were hidden by the snow. Richard shivered in place, aware of a nervous nagging within. He felt naked. When his right hand twitched once across his body, an unconscious gesture, he realized he wanted a weapon. Club, sword, P-90, but he understood that such things on this Side would not carry over in the physical sense. If he had to fight it would have to be with whatever was available on Otherside. He'd been on such a journey before, and knew his mind could conjure him a tank if need be, but it took concentration. He'd just have to wait and see. The Goddess—hopefully—might have whatever he needed most already prepared.

But if not . . . why then his own bare hands would more than suffice, providing he got within reach of Charon.

I'll rip your heart out, if you have one.  

Iona, finished with her prayers, backed away to her fourth point, chanting in her own tongue, her arms spread wide. Richard stood opposite, watching her through the yellow flames and pouring gray smoke. Her smooth, serene face calmed his heart for a few precious moments. Rage and hatred for an enemy, however deserving, would not help. Richard breathed deeply of the pungent sage smoke and cleared his mind. Listening to Iona's soft but powerful voice soothed his heart. He did not understand the words, but there was no need.

Bourland kept most of his attention on Michael but cast about, looking for some sign of what was to come. Richard had tried to explain this was a journey of the spirit, not the body, but didn't think it had fully sunk in. Well, they'd all know in a few more minutes.

The smoke suddenly billowed dense and swirled around the circle, seeming to have a guiding force directing it. Richard's eyes smarted as it enveloped him. He swiped at the sting, then no longer felt the same kind of winter cold. He smelled rain instead of wood smoke and snow. A chill damp wind breathed on his bare face.

When his sight cleared he was in Glastonbury, standing at the top of the great tor. St. Michael's Tower was gone, green winter grass covering the flat spot where it should have been. He truly was in another time and place.

The full moon was well risen. The ceremonies in the other sites must have been under way for some while now. The moonlight on the surrounding land was harsh and silvered, and showed damage to the countryside otherwise invisible to mundane eyes. The land below the tor was empty and blasted in places as it had been in his dream about a bombed landscape. Even the ancient bones of the once glorious abbey that had stood for long were gone. Are we too late? 

He found himself outwardly changed, wearing clothing and battle gear from his youth. The sword on his hip was his own, given to him by Sabra to replace the one lost in his last tourney as a living man. It should have been in its glass case in his Neville Park house, not here. This weapon gleamed as though new, the blade sharp and flawless, and it felt right in his hand. Lying in the lush, wet grass was one of his old shields, also new again, which he took up. The weight was also right and solid, reassuringly familiar. When had he lost it? At Camlan field, hacked to splinters and gone to dust over the centuries.

Where were the others? He walked cautiously around the uneven edge of the summit, searching.

We were supposed to be together. What's gone wrong?  

No sign of them and no sound but the wind sighing through the grass.

Clouds roiled on the western horizon, bloodred, lit from within by lightning, galloping toward him unnaturally fast. That couldn't be good.

The storm reached the tor in moments, filling the sky, blotting out the friendly moon; wind screamed around him, tearing and biting cold, but no rain fell. He could smell its hanging threat, but its promise of cleansing had been perverted. The air rushing down from the heavy clouds was tainted with burning and the stink of rotting flesh. Instead of thunder he heard screams and howls, nothing earthly in those sounds.

"Iona!"

He cast about, looking for her, for any of them, on one level glad they weren't here, on another worried about where they'd gone. He listened within, hoping to hear her voice as he'd so often heard Sabra's, but all that came was the pounding of his heart.

An aberration flickered in the corner of his eye but seemed to vanish when he looked directly. He only saw it by its absence, vaguely man-shaped, the edges blurred like fog, moving purposely along the tor's winding maze path to the top. It was fast and did not have far to come.

Richard checked for cover. None available with the tower gone. Too bad. A good old-fashioned bushwhacking would have taken care of things nicely. Fair play wasn't a factor in war. He was a soldier, and the job was to defeat the enemy decisively and quickly, then go home.

Have to make do with what was at hand.

He marked the progress of what he assumed was Charon, worked out what direction he would come from when he made it to the top, and slipped down on the hillside several yards distant. Richard lay flat in the clumps of grass, holding absolutely still, trying to listen in spite of the wind howl . . .

Until something dropped like an anvil across the back of his neck.

He tried to twist out of it, but the weight pressed him harder into the ground, almost to the snapping point for his bones. A thick-soled hiking boot was just within his view, wet, with bits of grass sticking to it, very effectively pinning him in place. His sword was plucked from his hand, his shield taken and tossed aside, and he anticipated the blow that would kill him to come next. Instead, he heard an incredulous, exasperated voice:

"Jesus Palomino, what does it take to snuff a bastard like you?"

The boot lifted, and he rolled quick to his feet. Charon had the sword in one hand and the Grail in the other, and stared at Richard with two healthy eyes. The damage he'd taken years back in their last confrontation was healed, but he was thin and wasted. His gray skin clung tight to his skull; his hands verged on the skeletal. He didn't look strong enough to stand much less fight, but Richard had felt preternatural strength holding him down.

"Or are you one of the guardians of this place?" Charon asked, cocking his head and squinting.

Richard made no reply. This was new. The man had ever been so sure of himself.

"What are you? Hm? You gotta answer, like it or not. Them's the rules. Who are you?" His eyes were fever bright, restless. "I said answer me!"

"Richard d'Orleans." Richard had intended to remain silent just to nettle him, but Charon's words drew the name out all the same. What the hell . . . ?

Charon snorted, not believing. "Yeah, right. Big fat hairy deal. Your goddess can't scare me that way. I know better. Whatever you are, you just hold still while I—"

He swung the blade faster than the lightning; it chopped deep into Richard's chest, and he fell with a grunt.

"—kill you. Again."

"What's happened?" Philip demanded. He strove to keep his voice under control, but it was bloody hard. Richard had been standing, eyes shut, and suddenly dropped like a stone. Philip had instinctively started toward him, but Iona sharply told him to stay in place.

"Otherside attack," Iona said. Her eyes were also shut.

"He's bleeding, dammit!" Philip stared, aghast at the flow. Dear God, it was pulsing out of him. There was too much of it. They'd never get him to a hospital in time.

"He'll be all right," she murmured.

But he could not believe her. Philip was now all too aware of what a precious necessity blood was to Richard. Tough as the man might be, he couldn't survive such a massive loss.

"Stay where you are!" Iona ordered an instant before he began to move.

He hesitated, fuming and fearful, and glanced across the fire at Michael.

"Chill out, Dad," said the boy. His eyes were also shut. "Call it a learning curve."

Richard hadn't even tried to dodge. Charon's words had utterly frozen him in place. He felt the heavy blow as a distant thing, seeming only to knock the breath from him and no more, but his blood gushed onto the grass. No real pain, though. It could be like that for dying men. He was ready to die, but to depart without finishing Charon? No, couldn't allow that. But how to fight a man who could control with his voice alone?

Oh. Of course. That'd be easy enough. Cut his throat so he can't speak. Now . . . how to get up and do it?

He pushed feebly against the earth; his limbs refused to cooperate. Mortal wounds were just too good at shutting things down.

But only for a mortal body. He wasn't sure how much of himself was on this Side, but knew his solid self was in a snowy clearing on the other Side of . . . of . . . fine. He'd only needed reminding. That was his Reality. Whatever happened to him here would echo there, but only if he allowed it. Charon wasn't the only one with influence.

Oh, damn. Now it began to hurt. The more real this Side became to him the more . . .

Shut it out, then. The sword doesn't really exist so it never caused any damage.  

Easier thought of than carried out, especially when all his senses told him different, but he did his best. It helped to remember Iona's face, imagining her standing before the fire, arms raised. She was real, this wasn't. This was Otherside, a place of gods and demons, of spirits and forces. He was just a tourist.

The blood began to reverse back into Richard, his wound knitting at atypical speed, even for him. One just had to know to work with the rules of the place. He wasn't used to it, but could adjust. By the time he was on his feet again, he had another sword in hand, identical to the other.

Charon had moved off, apparently seeking a certain spot in the long oval that formed the summit of the tor. Richard thought he might be looking for the hidden opening that led inside the tor itself, though why he'd want to was beyond reckoning. They'd each taken that path once. Richard had barely survived. He'd often wondered how Charon had escaped from the shattered and crumbling earth, and if he was worried about guardians, there were the Hounds. Annwyn's cold pets resided in that secret place. He would think the Grail would protect him, and well it might. Richard did not know. The hounds could also be loose and flying in the storm; this was their season to hunt.

Softly, softly, he eased forward, though it was unlikely anything could be heard with the stormy row above.

Yet Charon was aware of him and turned. He laughed once, shaking his head, then looked at the sky. "Sweetheart-honey-baby, don't you know when to quit?"

Apparently he still thought Richard was some kind of simulacrum fashioned by the Goddess. Richard went into his guard position, sword at an angle, his other arm up to fend off blows.

"I said hold still." Charon glared, and Richard froze.

He couldn't help himself. He only has as much power as I give to him. 

"That's better . . ." The sword in Charon's hand changed, metal shifted into wood, a sharp, barbed point formed on one end. When the transformation finished, Charon rammed the newly-made spear square into Richard's chest.

Tried, to, anyway. This time Richard ducked clear. Very fast.

"Oh, that's cool, you finally figured—whoa!" His turn to duck, as Richard waded in.

Sword against spear, reach against power and speed. Their pass was over in seconds, neither achieving an advantage.

"Sweet," said Charon, puffing. "Just try not to have too much fun."

Richard feinted quick to the right, cut left and across, and felt his blade slam hard into the wood staff of the spear. The impact went up his arm as it had a thousand times and more for him, from those summers sweating his youth away hacking at a practice post to his days of manhood fighting and killing to keep his king on the throne. Charon barely got his guard up in time to avoid losing his head.

Richard circled him, kept him turning, most of his focus on Charon, another part mindful of the storm and the creatures caught in its chaos. If any of them managed to break free and descend . . .  best not to think about that lest it happen. Using his speed he got in under Charon's guard, knocking the spear to the side and hacking down decisively with the blade. It passed through air, not flesh, and he had to spin with the momentum to maintain his balance.

"Oh, very fancy move, I'm sure," said Charon. He looked more out of breath than he should have been for the effort made. Perhaps all that was needed was to wear him down. "But you're playing out of your league."

Richard went for a layered attack combination, swift, clean, but battering with its force. Charon barely kept up, unable to counter until the last second, when he managed to bang the dull end of the spear into Richard's shoulder. There was just enough force behind it to make him pause.

"You're not so bad for a puppet." Charon squinted, cocking his head. "Unless you're . . ."

Richard mirrored the head tilt. "The real deal? Wake up and smell the coffee."

Charon was baffled a moment. Good. "Oh, no. Nononono. No way."

Oh, yes, you bastard.  

"Dickie-boy? That really you?"

No reply seemed required.

"Well, I'll be damned."

That's the idea.

Hastily, Charon shoved the Grail into his overcoat pocket and brought the spear to bear in both hands for a proper defense. The cut in it smoothed over, and the wood turned ebony dark. It likely was indeed ebony. More difficult to break. No matter. Richard's real target was soft enough.

Another pass, longer in duration, and Charon had to retreat to make use of the spear's length. It was too unwieldy for this kind of combat. Charon changed the spear back to a sword, something from a later time that was lighter and swifter than Richard's weapon, designed for stabbing as well as hacking. He knew how to use it, too.

Another pass. Richard felt like he was fighting his own distorted image. Neither made contact, neither advanced or retreated.

Charon grinned, pulling the Grail out once more and clutching it close to his chest. His face looked less skull-like than a moment ago. He was using it in some way to replenish himself even if he couldn't see the effect except by inference. Charon's form was filling out, getting stronger. Better shut that down before he got too robust.

Richard's own blade became lighter, turning into one he'd used in a much later century. Their fighting styles changed to suit the weapons and their next pass was considerably faster. Each took a nick, and each healed.

"Uh-oh. Looks like we're too evenly matched, Lance old boy. That won't last, though." Charon brought the Grail up, holding it before him. His form lit, briefly, white fire that turned an unhealthy green and seemed to sink into his flesh. When the glow faded he looked completely restored and far too happy about it.

At his feet, in a rough ten-foot circle, the grass had turned bone white, each blade desiccated and needle thin. Even the ground looked dead.

Richard held off from another attack, wary, alert.

He didn't see it. He felt it. Like an invisible wall smashing him all over. It slammed him right off his feet and seemed to fall on him to hold him in place.

Laughter. Not good. Charon loomed close. Without delay he put his sword point over Richard's heart and pushed.

That hurt. A lot. The breath rushed from him too fast to form a scream and refused to return.

Charon grinned, eyes dancing. "Face it, Dickie-boy, in this place my fu is better than your fu."

Pushed. Charon slammed downward until the hilt was against Richard's chest. The razoring blade stabbed through flesh, splintered bone . . . piercing through his body into the soil of the tor.

The earth screamed for him.

Philip, palms to his ears, bent almost double against the onslaught of noise. It was the insane shriek of a factory whistle, but much louder and strangely organic, as though from a living throat, not a machine, and it took the starch right out of his legs. He staggered, but struggled to stay in place. Richard had somehow recovered from that terrible wounding and gotten up—eyes still closed, dammit—but was now fallen again and worse off than before. He lay spread-eagled, obviously in great pain and unable to move.

Neither Iona nor Michael had budged, though they'd recoiled at the sound. What did they see? 

He shut his eyes, but perceived only the dim red flicker of the firelight playing on his lids. Why was he here? He wasn't doing any of them a damned bit of good. He looked again to Iona. Despite the cold, her face was sheened with sweat, almost glowing from it. Her outspread arms shook as though barely supporting a great weight.

"Iona! Help him!" he bellowed.

She didn't seem to hear.

Michael's face also shone in the firelight, silver and gold with his fair hair and dark skin. Philip called to him, but got no response. His every instinct told him something had gone wrong, and he felt desperately ill-equipped to deal with it. Iona had only told him he was to "be there," whatever that meant. Here where he stood or "there," as in whatever place Richard had gone?

This time Iona snapped no objection when Philip darted over to check on him. He was bleeding out again, a fearful and clearly fatal chest wound but no sign of what caused it. His eyes were still fast shut, and he struggled desperately to breathe, blood bubbling from his lips and nose. Oh, God—another attack like the one that had taken Sabra?

Philip lay a hand on Richard's forehead—so cold, corpse cold. "Richard!"

His friend flinched at the touch and groaned. "Where are you?" he whispered.

"Right here, dammit. Open your eyes!"

"They are op . . . Philip?"

He sounded so lost. Philip shook Richard. "Wake up!"

The shrieking rose and grew louder. A strange icy wind slapped Philip's face; it stank of destruction and rot, the stench filling his lungs, treacle-thick. He gagged and fell back, but this was no time to give in to trivialities.

Then a wholesome cloud of sage and sweetgrass smoke enveloped him, so dense his eyes watered. It fought the death-stink, though he could still smell that. He dragged out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes, then held it to his nose to filter the air. How could a man think with this going on?

"Richard?" He groped with his free hand, but encountered—what the hell?—wet grass? Not snow? He scrubbed his eyes again and blinked at the impossibility, trying to take in the change around him. The earthy howling was the same, even louder, but the fire in the circle of trees had quite vanished along with Iona and Michael. He knelt on open ground, a bleak wind tearing at his clothes and there lay Richard . . .

Oh, no . . .  

Richard fought off the physical shock and tried to rise, but the angles were wrong, and the more he struggled the greater the screaming from below. He paused, remembering his real body was elsewhere. The pain eased, but he was still stuck fast, his blood pouring out. For a moment he thought he heard Bourland's voice, distant and harsh, calling to him and tried to respond.

Where was Charon?

"Richard!" Bourland again, sounding scared. He had every right.

He called back, but could hardly hear himself. Charon had stolen all the air.

A dark shape began to tentatively emerge on his right. Charon again? But it was taller, less certain in its movements.

"Philip?" He could only mouth the name, but a name had power. Philip—over here! 

The shape came closer, seemed to suddenly kneel, feeling its way on the ground.

Philip! Thinking of him made him more real on this Side, though what it would do to the man's sanity . . .

And he was there. Most of him. Staring around, dumbfounded.

Then horrified, when his gaze fell on Richard.

Richard gestured weakly at the thing pinning him to the earth, pleading, hoping Bourland would understand.

"You're not really here," he said. His form wavered. Richard could see through him to the red clouds above. "Neither of us . . . we can't be."

Take it out! Richard's gaze pressed hard upon his friend. He struggled and managed to mouth the words. He knew the sword was not real; he should have been able to will it away on his own, but the agony and terror were too distracting. He needed help.

Bourland hesitated, then visibly made up his mind. His ghostly hands solidified, grasped the hilt, and pulled in one awful effort. The shrieking din ceased. Substantiality traveled up Bourland's arms, finally encompassing his body. He was now fully on this Side, white-faced and frightened. "My God, if I've killed you . . ."

"I'll be fine," Richard gasped. But to make a lie of it, he heeled over and began coughing. It's a damned nasty business to drown in one's own blood.

Bourland stared as Richard grimaced and groaned through a difficult healing. "But you've been run though!"

"The rules . . . are different . . . here." It was slower going this time. The pain didn't leave him as it should have. He felt as weak as when recovering from that bridge fall, less able to concentrate. "Where's Charon?"

"No sign of him."

That couldn't be good, but there was no going after him for the moment. Richard tried willing his lost blood back into himself again. God, but it was hard to think, to visualize. The longer he was here, the more real this Side became to him, and the more damage he could suffer. "The others?"

"In the clearing by the fire, standing with their eyes shut the same as you. Only you fell . . ."

"Remember that place. It's our anchor. If things get strange, picture Michael and Iona, picture that place in your mind and go toward it."

"If they get strange . . . ?"

Richard missed the rest, if any, doubling over again.

"Whups," yelped Sharon, as the serpent god made a sudden move in a direction opposite to where they'd been traveling. Fortunately the walls formed by his body were somewhat flexible. She was bruised, nothing broken. She maneuvered over to the opening. The light was brighter, flickering, and the air that beat against her face was an uneasy mix of ozone and rotting meat.

They were in the midst of churning clouds, lightning flowered everywhere. One tremendous bolt shot from side to side of her measureless horizon, and this time there was noise. The boom thrummed right through the god's body and hers. He shifted. Sharon pushed back in time, getting her hands clear from being crushed. Her long narrow window sealed up, shutting her in the dark again.

She still felt the thunder or whatever was out there. In here it wasn't loud so much as deep, and the vibration very unpleasant, like a boom box set on maximum. Too loud to hear, you only felt it. Putting her hands over her ears helped. Kukulcan didn't seem to like it either, for he made a lot more moves than before, and she pitched from one point of her sphere to the other.

What was going on out there that would so agitate a god?

The blast of sound knocked Charon completely off his feet. He somehow kept hold of the Grail, pulling himself in tight like a tumbler, protecting it from seeking hands with his body. No one and nothing tried to make a grab, though he felt something buffeting him around like a soccer ball.

Earth Mommy is pissed as hell, he thought, when he finally stopped rolling.

It had been quite a near fall. He was partway down one flank of the tor, and had only stopped by twisting to one side on a marginally broader section of the maze path. The top was a hike and a half distant. He had the energy for it now, but suspected his time was short, especially with the weird weather banging around overhead.

NOT my fault. That was just a byproduct resulting from taking his Realside corporeal body through to Otherside. You weren't supposed to do that. It weakened structures, ripped veils, and messed up all kinds of other inconvenient crappola. Well, too bad, he was here and would leave only after he got what he wanted. Deal with it.

He had to get to the top again. That last bout with the jock had opened a window of enlightenment. After the business in Chichén Itzá with Big Snaky's blood doing such a world of help, Charon had an insight on how to accomplish the same thing here, but better. This time the healing would be permanent. He could go back to Realside hale and hearty enough to enjoy the fun and games that would take place when some of the more dangerous denizens of Otherside found their way through.

Predators were always looking for fresh hunting grounds. He had no problem with that since he would be the one at the top of the food chain. He would feed from them, while they fed from all the little pink monkeys that had taken over the planet. They were over-populated anyway. Not that they weren't efficient at thinning their own numbers down, but there were other, more fun ways of going about it. In a couple of months the chaos would set things back to a nicer, slower time, maybe about half-past the Dark Ages, with no Renaissance to haul them out of the muck. Hell, he could probably start up another religion again. It'd been a couple thousand years since the last time he'd played that game. He could introduce an inside-out Rubik's cube of conflicting dogmas for them to fight over then kick back with the remote and a six-pack to watch the fun.

Charon began climbing. He tucked the Grail into his pocket again, so he could use his hands when needed. He had to crabwalk to get up the steeper bits, but that was faster than taking the maze path. After a few minutes exhaustion swooped on him and he paused, pulled the Grail out and used it to replenish himself. Jeez, the stuff was leaking out as fast as he could pour it in. There would be no second chances on this gig. He'd have to make it work right the first time.

Now . . . about the jock. How in hell had he gotten here? Never mind surviving his dip in the river and what it must have done to him. He'd pulled through it somehow and waltzed into Otherside easy-peasy, all ready to kick ass and take names.

And that had created no further disturbances to the windy climate . . .

Which meant he'd done it the Boy Scout way and followed the rules . . .

Which meant his real body was someplace else.

Which meant he had help.

But his witchy girlfriend was deader'n Dixie. Of that Charon was certain. He'd sucked her so dry in the hospital that even divine intervention from her hot shot Goddess wouldn't have brought her back.

So who else was out there directing the show? Had Dun recruited a gaggle of dippy New Agers to dance nekked in the woods for him? Nah, not his style to bring in a group. He was too much the loner. Maybe he had another girlfriend waiting in the wings. He did love to spread himself around and once they spread for him they tended to be devoted for life. Even Sherry-pie had screamed his name before big Wormy caught her. What was it about the guy? The baby blues or his aftershave?

Another girlfriend . . . and she was probably someone close . . . a blood relation, perhaps?

Charon looked at his hands. Well-well—Dun's gore was all over them, how about that? It was messy business, killing, but in this case he didn't mind. He was pretty sure he could improvise something. It wouldn't take much to backtrack. Dickie-boy wouldn't trust his safety to just anyone.

"Come on," Charon whispered. "Talk to papa. Tell me everything you know."

He rubbed his hands against his face, breathing in, smearing the red over his eyelids. The psychic link of the blood here to its Realside originator would be very strong. Yeah, that gave him a fix . . . follow the blood trail to . . . a cozy little cabin in the back of beyond. The same one he'd burgled. He could see it settled in a nest of white drifts, like one of those water globe scenes with the fake snow swirling inside. Very tiny, lots of detail . . . a light over there . . . a fire with four figures at the compass points. Jeez, were they predictable or what? One of the figures was down, that would be the jock, another had left his appointed spot to look after the fallen. The balances would be dangerously off because of that.

So who else was there? A kid? Not him. And that woman . . . who was . . . ? Well, I'll be dipsy-doodled. The bitch that clawed his eye out was running this ride. Wow, look at her working it. She wasn't used to this kind of load. The others weren't carrying their share, either. She wouldn't be able to hold out against . . . ah, just surprise her. Something quick and dirty. Then maybe he could get on with things.

Oh, yeah: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

They were usually very hung up on symbolism. Yank one thing out of place—that should be enough to buy him protection against more interference.

Charon shut his eyes, cupping his hands before him and imagined the cabin and the woods squarely in his palms. When the image was fixed and strong, he blew hard, like it was a birthday cake with countless candles to snuff.

The fire in the clearing went out.

"Nighty-night," he said, then clapped once.

"Your bleeding's stopped," said Bourland.

Richard had noticed. As soon as he could get up, he would. It felt good to lie here, even if it was freezing and on wet grass. He imagined the strength of the land flowing into him. Not the same as fresh blood but it would do for the time being.

The storm seemed to be in a kind of holding pattern, still full of fury, but not growing worse. Perhaps the blast of sound resulting from Charon's last attack had also knocked him for six. If they could find him before he recovered . . .

"Hand me that sword, would you?"

Bourland reluctantly passed it over, the one that had too recently been buried in Richard's chest. Damn, there was a hellish ache there still. Which wasn't real. Just have to ignore—no—remember Iona's face, ruddy in the firelight, the sage smoke playing about her as she chanted. Richard thought he could hear her voice.

The pain ebbed. Finally. Even the stains on his shirt vanished. He took a deep draught of air and did not cough it out again. "Help me up?" he asked.

"It's too soon."

"Not soon enough. Come on."

Bourland hauled, and Richard used the sword like a cane for balance as he came upright. He swayed, lightheaded a moment, then got his legs. He should have been famished, but only felt a nervous restlessness to get going. Quickly, he explained to Bourland a little of what to expect.

"Charon's attempt to heal himself will probably tear open a rift between the Sides, and it can't be allowed."

Bourland worked to take it in. He really was trying. "But aren't there forces in place to head off that sort of thing? Guardians and such? Iona let that much drop. We can't be the only ones to stop him."

"He's from our Reality. It's our job. And I rather think the guardians might be busy." Richard gestured at the storm. The weather in Realside Glastonbury was probably verging on the catastrophic. He stooped then straightened, picking up his own dropped blade. There, the blood rush to his brain wasn't too bad. The migraine-like agony only lasted a few seconds. "Take this."

Bourland accepted the sword readily, but shook his head. "Fencing wasn't exactly my sport at school. I still have my Walther." He touched the spot under his left arm where it was holstered. "Will it work here?"

Richard hadn't expected that. "Maybe. If you think it will. But cold iron will be better, even if it is imaginary."

"I'll take imagined hot brass and lead over imagined cold iron any day, thank you very much." But Bourland kept hold of the sword and looked around. "What about Charon?"

"He might have wrapped himself in darkness again. Put your back to mine and keep your eyes open for movement. We'll work toward the center. He seemed interested in that area."

"Oh, lord." But Bourland did as he was told and they gradually made their way over. "What's with the fancy dress?" He was still in his modern clothes, the long coat and somber dark suit he'd worn to the memorial service.

"When we pass to this Side we have what we need." That would account for Bourland being armed with his handgun. He didn't know on a subconscious level that it might not work here, so it was with him. Richard wasn't sure why he was in his old clothes, but they felt right to him.

"I suppose every place needs civil servants," Bourland conceded. "I'd look damn silly in tights anyway."

"They're not tights."

"People really used to dress like that?"

"Yes."

"My God."

"You over the shock, yet?"

Bourland snorted, getting the message. "Yes, all right. You said it'd be unsettling, I'm unsettled. We're here. Now what?"

"Stop him when he shows himself. And ignore everything he says. His voice has power in this place, though he might not use that attack again."

"This is really Glastonbury?"

"For all intents and purposes."

"Is it supposed to smell so bad?" Bourland held the handkerchief to his face again.

"That's his doing. I think he's feeding from the energies here, and it's made an opening that's not supposed to exist."

"Opening to where?"

"Places that are usually sealed. Remember those creatures from Michael's visions?"

Clearly he did.

"I think they're in the storm. There's some nasty things that can come through, so watch out for them. If you get the chance, take the Grail from Charon and run like hell."

"Run where?"

"Back to Iona. Picture her and Michael and the fire in the circle. She'll do the rest."

"My real body's still there, isn't it?"

"Yes. As is mine."

"What about Charon? Where's his real body?"

That stopped Richard short. "An excellent question."

"A damned obvious one. Why don't we look for it instead?"

"Because unless he brought it through to here—which would be horrifically stupid—it's probably in Realside Glastonbury and we're not."

Bourland's brief, one-word response fully reflected his Anglo-Saxon ancestry. "Then we take him out here, no holds barred."

"That's the plan."

"But—"

The specifics of Bourland's objection were lost to Richard. In the same moment both men pitched forward. Richard tasted green grass, its sweetness marred by the slaughterhouse stink of the air, then the grass turned into snow.

He caught a strong whiff of sage and blinked against stinging smoke. The red storm clouds wavered, an unsteady projection superimposed upon a screen of tall trees. What the hell . . . ?

Their circle, the fire . . . out . . . how had that happened?

Bourland looking around in confusion, Iona chanting, her voice harsh and desperate, trying to hold things together, and Michael . . .  bless the boy, he was busy, quickly dropping more wood into place. Was he somehow taller or was that an illusion of his Otherside self? He lighted a fire starter and shoved it into the kindling, then lighted another and another, adding them in until the blaze was nearly as strong as before. Thank heaven for modern conveniences. He returned into his place again. The last Richard saw of him before Glastonbury reasserted itself was the boy flashing a sudden grin and a thumb's up sign.

Bourland hastily lurched to his feet. "Bloody hell!"

"Just a setback, keep your eyes open." How long had they been gone? Long enough, apparently, as time was reckoned here. Charon now knelt in the center of where St. Michael's tower stood on Realside and with a thick-bladed knife hacked strongly at the earth there. No screams erupted from this activity, though. The Goddess must have done something to compensate or had sealed that doorway off. He'd never find his way in.

Richard murmured in Bourland's ear. "I'll distract him, you come up from behind." Each man split off in a different direction; Richard saw to it he approached Charon from the front, coming up fast.

That got him noticed right away. Charon paused his digging and scowled. "Damn, but you're harder to shake than a case of the runs. I don't have time for this!"

"Get up then. You can try for three out of three."

He showed teeth. "Third one's the charm? That's how you guys like to work, isn't it? If you really focused, you could get it right the first—"

Richard found a way to shut him up. Charon blocked the attack at the last instant, his knife blade ringing against the extended sword. He followed through, launching a full body tackle and over they rolled. Richard hammered swift, hard knuckle stabs at the pressure points within his reach, getting grunts of pain in return.

The Grail.  

In one of Charon's pockets. Richard could feel it through the material. He closed his hand over it to rip it free, but Charon anticipated and hammered right back—using the knife. It startled Richard, and before he could react to the pain he was abruptly tossed clear by a decisive judo-like throw. Charon had ever been strong, but not like this. The storm-troubled sky switched places with the tor several times before Richard came to a stop. He kept hold of the sword and instinctively brought it 'round to block a blow, but none fell. He'd landed in a heap, breathless and sluggish. It was as though his strength had been sucked out, and he dully realized that's exactly what had happened. Charon was a black hole, feeding, feeding, feeding.

Richard didn't dare risk more physical contact, had to keep a distance between. He got up, feeling heavy and clod-footed, willing himself to heal. Where was Bourland?

Two flat pops on the foul wind. Two more. Gun shots. Richard hurried toward the sound.

Bourland was in a shooting stance, braced with left hand cupping the right, his Walther aimed square, point blank range. He knew what he was doing; there was no way he could possibly miss at ten feet, but Charon refused to fall over.

"That's been tried before," he told Bourland. "It didn't work then, either."

Not one to waste time, Bourland obligingly grabbed up his sword. He must have had some fencing classes once upon a time, but wasn't an expert. The most he could hope to do to stay alive would be to keep backing out of range.

Charon shook his head. "Oh, now you've got to be kidding." But instead of his knife, he pulled out the Grail, holding it high. Once more his form lit up with a white flash, but the force went outward from him, striking Bourland like a club. He dropped. Charon turned, grinning. "Hey! Dickie-boy! Can I throw a party or what?"

Using his speed, Richard charged forward, but stopped short as Charon raised the Holy Cup again.

"Don't even think it or I'll fry you, too."

Richard had no fear for himself, but Bourland . . . he lay prone and unmoving. "Philip!"

He heard a groan. Alive, thank God, but needing recovery time.

"Philip! Stay down."

"No problem," came a muffled reply.

Charon's knife had turned into a sword, and he pressed its point into the back of Bourland's black overcoat, making a dent.

"Come on over, or Mr. GQ here gets stapled to the ground, and I don't think he's got your way of bouncing back."

Richard warily approached. "You don't want to do that. The Goddess was less than pleased the last time."

"Thanks for the hint, I'll be sure not to run him through too far, but hey—who'd a thought she'd turn out to be a screamer, huh? And, oh, gosh, where is she, anyway? Haven't heard a peep from her, and I've been doing some major damage to her real estate. Letting her knight-errants do all the dirty work is kinda tough on you. Will she be around to kiss your boo-boos when the smoke clears?"

He's fishing for information. He might not be able to sense her, even with the Grail in hand. "You're restored yourself, just leave. The longer you're here the greater the risk you run for retaliation. It's not something you'd like."

"I'm touched you care, but life don't work so simple. If it did I wouldn't have had to haul my ass all over creation to get anything done for myself. Do you have any idea just how stingy the powers that be are with their healing mojo? We only get the tiniest crumbs of what's really out there."

"Meaning if you leave, you're back to dying?"

"At hyperspeed, pal. Not on my event horizon. What I've got here is just bandage work. I want a total fix and some extra to get myself back to how it used to be. You and that freaking Injun Josephine did this to me, so don't think I'm unappreciative. I wanna make sure you each get my personal thanks."

"We cured you from having your beast take you over."

"Screw that, you thought you were killing me, which I get from a lot of people, but they never carried it as far as you did."

"Pity."

"Can it. Where's your Mother Nature wanna-be hiding herself?" Charon shifted the sword point to the back of Bourland's neck. "Come on—or I do a tracheotomy the hard way."

"That's a hell of a storm going on, she could be busy with it."

The gale was right on top of the tor. Still no rain, but the lightning seemed to be having a vast battle with itself, yet there wasn't as much noise as there should have been. Unnatural stuff. At this short distance it should have been stitching the earth, but perhaps the Goddess was preventing that, protecting her sacred ground from further harm.

When Charon glanced up, Richard lunged. Even if that damned parasite drained him empty, he'd find the strength to snap his spine first. Richard slammed his blade through Charon's body, the metal violently disrupting the forces bounded within his flesh.

An almighty flash engulfed the three of them, an inhuman shriek, and Richard felt a massive shock tear up his arm and blast through his body. He fell away, blinded, limbs twitching as the current ripped through his nervous system.

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Contents
Framed

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Contents

Chapter Fourteen

Charon reached beautiful, not-quite downtown Glastonbury in his anonymous rental, pulling into an empty car park and killing the lights. The sky had been clear all day, and it promised to continue through the night, which was just beginning to descend. Few lights showed in the town, which like many in the countryside, really did roll up the sidewalks after dark, much to the annoyance of the American tourists. Well, too bad for them.

He wanted to rest before taking on the last leg of his trip, which would indeed be on his legs, unfortunately. God, he was tired. It had been one hell of a long haul from leaky Niagara, first by train, then that snail-paced bus trip, the other train south to Atlanta, an endless parade of paranoid security people looking for terrorists—and himself, of course—then the flight across the Pond.

The plane trip to get to London damn-near killed him, even in first class. All that sitting in place and the brainless in-flight movie and nauseating food. He'd all but taken up residence in the forward crapper, dropping his cookies in the stainless-steel well, flushing it away with the chemically hygienic blue water, the astringent, overly sweet smell of which only encouraged him to repeat the performance.

The flight attendants became aware of his illness, and he was hard pressed to stave off their well-intentioned offers to help until they finally noticed the bastard in the row ahead of him. When the man keeled over bleeding that got them nicely freaked. That admittedly risky feeding plus their combined tension, horror, and sick worry kept Charon sustained for the rest of the flight. Nice floor show, too. They'd pulled a doctor out of coach to look after things.

Imagine! A doctor flying coach. After the mint they charged me and for nothing, the damned quacks. One idiotic test after another just to tell me I'm gonna die. Well, screw that, them, and all their cousins.  

Man, if the flight crew knew the truth of what he was planning they'd have gutted him with their pre-packaged plastic forks, then cracked open the rest of the plane's mini-bottles of tasteless champagne to celebrate. Too late for them, now.

After that, Charon was forced to have a full collapse in a London hotel under his latest and possibly last necessary alias. It had proved a good cover, slicking him past customs and all those watchful cops easily enough when combined with his metaphysical camouflage. Even his case full of pills was no problem, though of course anybody could see he was sick. But he was well aware that he was being hunted by a specialized bunch that made the CIA look like a knitting guild. Can't have them putting a foot into things at this stage.

His illness was taking a visible toll on him, even with the near-constant feeding by using the Grail to channel the resident psychic energies. In the hotel's bathroom mirror he noticed his ribs showing. Not something he'd seen since he was a scrawny teen centuries ago. His face flesh hung loose on emerging cheekbones and what a terrible color his skin was under the tropical tan. No real color at all, just veins showing through the thinning skin. Have to do something about that. Tonight. While he was still able.

He slumped in the car seat, hugging the Grail close, using it to funnel in random energy to keep him going. Not too much to get himself noticed, just enough for a nice buzz and to build up reserves. Save the Spielberg effects for later when they were needed.

There was a good old full moon coming tonight. That additional energy oughta put a corncob up the Goddess's ass. Once he was done, she wouldn't know what hit her.

He'd wait an hour past sunset, then start up the tor.

Driving the unmarked white van, Bourland, Iona, Richard, and Michael arrived at Sabra's wilderness cottage well before noon. Strictly, it was not in a true wilderness, but distant enough from neighbors for Sabra to enjoy the isolation. There were several acres to the property, very private. Iona walked around to the backyard, which was profuse with large trees and virgin snow. The trees formed a circular clearing some ten yards across; in its center was a stone construction that more mundane eyes might take for a homemade barbeque. It was cone-shaped, made of concrete and native stone, about waist-high, and a yard across at the base. Sabra had built it herself soon after she'd moved in. Its bowl-shaped crown was blackened from past fires. There was no sign of a cooking grill.

"It's good," said Iona. "Let's go in."

The police had shut things up, and Bourland sent people from Richard's security company out to repair the damage to the alarm system. He used his own key to let them in, entering the code into the wall unit before it went off.

Richard feared this moment, but decided it was easier to look at Sabra's things with the others along, easier to think that she was just in the next room. Everything was as she'd left it when she'd bolted out the morning of the shared vision, a few unwashed dishes in the sink, a book she'd been reading open across the arm of a chair.

Michael was hungry. He and Iona poked around the kitchen. She found eggs and still-fresh peameal bacon and asked if he wanted scrambled or over-easy.

"Both," he said, taking his usual chair at the kitchen table.

Bourland touched Richard's elbow, and they went to the small living room. The place had central heating, but that had been turned down. He went to adjust the thermostat and the room began to warm. Bourland uncharacteristically fidgeted, pulling his gloves off, shoving both in the same pocket, taking them out for a look, then shoving them in again.

Richard had confidence in Iona and Michael, but how would Bourland handle this? His inexperience in Otherside matters would work against him; it might overwhelm him. Richard wanted to leave him out. Iona insisted, though. She'd first met him when he, Richard, and Sabra had taken Michael on a visit to Kingcome Inlet. They'd found common ground teaching Michael to night fish.

"What's this about, Richard?" Bourland asked. "She didn't explain much of anything."

A damned good question. "It's a way to perhaps stop Charon."

Bourland held to a straight face, but his heart began to drum loud enough to be audible to human ears. Was it terror or anticipation? "How?"

"The ceremony will cause us to travel in spirit to where he is."

"In spirit?" His tone lowered. Skepticism. "What will that be like?"

"Unsettling," said Richard. "But you get used to it. Just accept what you see and feel as reality and respect it."

"And if I don't?"

"It can kill you. There . . . and here."

"I see. You've done this before?"

"Yes. The last time was to help Michael."

"I don't know as I'm quite the right man for this. What am I supposed to do?"

"Be there," said Iona cryptically, looking in from the kitchen.

"For what?"

She shrugged and went back to frying eggs. Somehow, that had been a very significant-seeming shrug.

Bourland looked at Richard, who also shrugged. "There is no answer since the future is in flux. More so now because of what Charon's been doing. He's upset balances, God knows why, because he must be aware there are always consequences when you muck about with such forces."

" 'Eating the light'? Feeding off psychic energies and such to fight his cancer?"

"To fight off death. He should have been gone by now. Once he missed his sell-by date . . ."

Bourland snorted. "I'm not sure if any of this even exists, but if you're all taking it seriously, then I shall, too. At least for today. By tomorrow I want everything sane and plodding along as usual in the normal sort of madness. But until then I'll do whatever it takes to kill the bastard."

On that, Richard knew, Bourland could be entirely relied upon.

Michael must have looked on Iona as a surrogate for Sabra, for they spent the time over his lunch talking. Richard wanted to listen in, but intuition told him to keep clear. He wanted to speak with her, too, perhaps to find some ease for his own inner pain, but there would be no chance. Iona said they would have to take action this day, while the moon rose over distant Glastonbury.

"The time difference can be confusing," she said. "It's a big world, but we have friends." She knew about the Stonehenge group's healing ceremony and the villagers convergence at Chichén Itzá. He'd not told her about either of them. For all they knew similar ceremonies might be going on in other places as well.

"Will time as we reckon it really matter?" asked Michael.

"It will where he is, and that's where we must be."

Iona was serene, Bourland restive and worried, Richard determined, and Michael . . . sad.

"Why?" Richard asked.

The boy shrugged, the gesture must have been contagious. "Change is coming. I like things just as they are—were—anyway, it's all going to be different. Me and Dad, me and you. With Aunt Sabra not being here . . ."

"Have you dreamed of her?" Sometimes Michael dreamed of his mother and sisters. It was a source of comfort for him, had helped much in his healing. Richard wanted some crumb of that for himself.

"Not that I remember." He saw Richard's disappointment. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"I know you want to talk with her."

"We all do." The silence in his mind was still terrible. For nearly all his long life she had always been there. While the brief lives around him flourished and swiftly died Sabra continued on. With him. She was his one constant in an existence rife with disappointments, betrayals, joys, and disasters. He could bear anything, survive anything so long as she was breathing the same air. Half his soul had been ripped from him, and unlike a physical wound he would never quite bleed to death from it.

That would be a happy release.

Sharon Geary jerked awake when her drifting body thumped up against the side of her snaky protector.

Newton's whatever-the-number Law: a body in motion stays in motion until acted upon by . . .  

Or something like that. The short version being that Kukulcan was slowing down, while she in her hollow space continued forward. She was very glad he'd not slammed hard on the brakes or there might have been a nasty collision for her.

She pushed off and sought out her long, thin peephole to the outside. Very bright there, now. She'd fallen asleep—hard to fathom—watching the rainbow lightning ripping across infinity.

"How goes it for ye, sir?" she called, expecting him to widen the opening so she could have a better look. She could just see his massive head in its usual place, above and to the left of her. How long had he held himself so carefully still in this position? Did gods get muscle cramps? She checked her watch and noticed the second hand wasn't moving.

Uh-oh. Was that a bad thing? She shook it. The battery was no more than a month old. Maybe the lightning had buggered it; lots of energy playing about out there, might have been like being next to a magnet. She had a friend at school who killed watches if she wore them for more than a few days. "Magnetic personality" they'd teased and always knew what to buy her for birthdays and Christmas. None of the teachers said it was possible, but the watches, electronic and mechanical alike, died all the same.

Sharon peered through the opening, wary for giant bugs, but seeing bright light. That distant spiral he'd been heading toward . . . was this what it might look like close up? She determinedly did not think about black holes, maelstroms, or even bathtub drains.

Kukulcan seemed to be too occupied to pay her any attention, and anything that got such a level of focus from him was likely to be important.

She resumed her place, anchoring as best she could to observe, her heart speeding up. Something was going to happen, or so her gut told her, not her Sight, not her reason.

"Tick, tick, tick, tick," she muttered, green eyes wide.

Toronto, the Present

Richard brought kindling and shavings from the woodshed, arranged them in the bowl-shaped depression in the top of the cone, and touched a firelighter with a match to get things going. It certainly beat striking a spark off flint. God, those days when after your sword a tinder box was your most important tool. He used to collect the things, acquiring a new one whenever someone made an improvement.

Once the kindling caught, he added several pieces of dry firewood. Oak, he absently noticed. They soon caught as well. The flames were very high and merry under the lowering sky, yet small against the forest darkness. The fire seemed to light only the immediate area; the surrounding trees pressed close, as though seeking warmth. Richard's shadow, made large, moved black against their trunks like an unfriendly spirit.

Iona threw on piles of sage and sweet grass and soon thick, fragrant smoke flooded the clearing.

Richard, Bourland, and Michael took their places two yards from the cone at three of the four compass points. Sabra had long marked them out with little stones, but those were hidden by the snow. Richard shivered in place, aware of a nervous nagging within. He felt naked. When his right hand twitched once across his body, an unconscious gesture, he realized he wanted a weapon. Club, sword, P-90, but he understood that such things on this Side would not carry over in the physical sense. If he had to fight it would have to be with whatever was available on Otherside. He'd been on such a journey before, and knew his mind could conjure him a tank if need be, but it took concentration. He'd just have to wait and see. The Goddess—hopefully—might have whatever he needed most already prepared.

But if not . . . why then his own bare hands would more than suffice, providing he got within reach of Charon.

I'll rip your heart out, if you have one.  

Iona, finished with her prayers, backed away to her fourth point, chanting in her own tongue, her arms spread wide. Richard stood opposite, watching her through the yellow flames and pouring gray smoke. Her smooth, serene face calmed his heart for a few precious moments. Rage and hatred for an enemy, however deserving, would not help. Richard breathed deeply of the pungent sage smoke and cleared his mind. Listening to Iona's soft but powerful voice soothed his heart. He did not understand the words, but there was no need.

Bourland kept most of his attention on Michael but cast about, looking for some sign of what was to come. Richard had tried to explain this was a journey of the spirit, not the body, but didn't think it had fully sunk in. Well, they'd all know in a few more minutes.

The smoke suddenly billowed dense and swirled around the circle, seeming to have a guiding force directing it. Richard's eyes smarted as it enveloped him. He swiped at the sting, then no longer felt the same kind of winter cold. He smelled rain instead of wood smoke and snow. A chill damp wind breathed on his bare face.

When his sight cleared he was in Glastonbury, standing at the top of the great tor. St. Michael's Tower was gone, green winter grass covering the flat spot where it should have been. He truly was in another time and place.

The full moon was well risen. The ceremonies in the other sites must have been under way for some while now. The moonlight on the surrounding land was harsh and silvered, and showed damage to the countryside otherwise invisible to mundane eyes. The land below the tor was empty and blasted in places as it had been in his dream about a bombed landscape. Even the ancient bones of the once glorious abbey that had stood for long were gone. Are we too late? 

He found himself outwardly changed, wearing clothing and battle gear from his youth. The sword on his hip was his own, given to him by Sabra to replace the one lost in his last tourney as a living man. It should have been in its glass case in his Neville Park house, not here. This weapon gleamed as though new, the blade sharp and flawless, and it felt right in his hand. Lying in the lush, wet grass was one of his old shields, also new again, which he took up. The weight was also right and solid, reassuringly familiar. When had he lost it? At Camlan field, hacked to splinters and gone to dust over the centuries.

Where were the others? He walked cautiously around the uneven edge of the summit, searching.

We were supposed to be together. What's gone wrong?  

No sign of them and no sound but the wind sighing through the grass.

Clouds roiled on the western horizon, bloodred, lit from within by lightning, galloping toward him unnaturally fast. That couldn't be good.

The storm reached the tor in moments, filling the sky, blotting out the friendly moon; wind screamed around him, tearing and biting cold, but no rain fell. He could smell its hanging threat, but its promise of cleansing had been perverted. The air rushing down from the heavy clouds was tainted with burning and the stink of rotting flesh. Instead of thunder he heard screams and howls, nothing earthly in those sounds.

"Iona!"

He cast about, looking for her, for any of them, on one level glad they weren't here, on another worried about where they'd gone. He listened within, hoping to hear her voice as he'd so often heard Sabra's, but all that came was the pounding of his heart.

An aberration flickered in the corner of his eye but seemed to vanish when he looked directly. He only saw it by its absence, vaguely man-shaped, the edges blurred like fog, moving purposely along the tor's winding maze path to the top. It was fast and did not have far to come.

Richard checked for cover. None available with the tower gone. Too bad. A good old-fashioned bushwhacking would have taken care of things nicely. Fair play wasn't a factor in war. He was a soldier, and the job was to defeat the enemy decisively and quickly, then go home.

Have to make do with what was at hand.

He marked the progress of what he assumed was Charon, worked out what direction he would come from when he made it to the top, and slipped down on the hillside several yards distant. Richard lay flat in the clumps of grass, holding absolutely still, trying to listen in spite of the wind howl . . .

Until something dropped like an anvil across the back of his neck.

He tried to twist out of it, but the weight pressed him harder into the ground, almost to the snapping point for his bones. A thick-soled hiking boot was just within his view, wet, with bits of grass sticking to it, very effectively pinning him in place. His sword was plucked from his hand, his shield taken and tossed aside, and he anticipated the blow that would kill him to come next. Instead, he heard an incredulous, exasperated voice:

"Jesus Palomino, what does it take to snuff a bastard like you?"

The boot lifted, and he rolled quick to his feet. Charon had the sword in one hand and the Grail in the other, and stared at Richard with two healthy eyes. The damage he'd taken years back in their last confrontation was healed, but he was thin and wasted. His gray skin clung tight to his skull; his hands verged on the skeletal. He didn't look strong enough to stand much less fight, but Richard had felt preternatural strength holding him down.

"Or are you one of the guardians of this place?" Charon asked, cocking his head and squinting.

Richard made no reply. This was new. The man had ever been so sure of himself.

"What are you? Hm? You gotta answer, like it or not. Them's the rules. Who are you?" His eyes were fever bright, restless. "I said answer me!"

"Richard d'Orleans." Richard had intended to remain silent just to nettle him, but Charon's words drew the name out all the same. What the hell . . . ?

Charon snorted, not believing. "Yeah, right. Big fat hairy deal. Your goddess can't scare me that way. I know better. Whatever you are, you just hold still while I—"

He swung the blade faster than the lightning; it chopped deep into Richard's chest, and he fell with a grunt.

"—kill you. Again."

"What's happened?" Philip demanded. He strove to keep his voice under control, but it was bloody hard. Richard had been standing, eyes shut, and suddenly dropped like a stone. Philip had instinctively started toward him, but Iona sharply told him to stay in place.

"Otherside attack," Iona said. Her eyes were also shut.

"He's bleeding, dammit!" Philip stared, aghast at the flow. Dear God, it was pulsing out of him. There was too much of it. They'd never get him to a hospital in time.

"He'll be all right," she murmured.

But he could not believe her. Philip was now all too aware of what a precious necessity blood was to Richard. Tough as the man might be, he couldn't survive such a massive loss.

"Stay where you are!" Iona ordered an instant before he began to move.

He hesitated, fuming and fearful, and glanced across the fire at Michael.

"Chill out, Dad," said the boy. His eyes were also shut. "Call it a learning curve."

Richard hadn't even tried to dodge. Charon's words had utterly frozen him in place. He felt the heavy blow as a distant thing, seeming only to knock the breath from him and no more, but his blood gushed onto the grass. No real pain, though. It could be like that for dying men. He was ready to die, but to depart without finishing Charon? No, couldn't allow that. But how to fight a man who could control with his voice alone?

Oh. Of course. That'd be easy enough. Cut his throat so he can't speak. Now . . . how to get up and do it?

He pushed feebly against the earth; his limbs refused to cooperate. Mortal wounds were just too good at shutting things down.

But only for a mortal body. He wasn't sure how much of himself was on this Side, but knew his solid self was in a snowy clearing on the other Side of . . . of . . . fine. He'd only needed reminding. That was his Reality. Whatever happened to him here would echo there, but only if he allowed it. Charon wasn't the only one with influence.

Oh, damn. Now it began to hurt. The more real this Side became to him the more . . .

Shut it out, then. The sword doesn't really exist so it never caused any damage.  

Easier thought of than carried out, especially when all his senses told him different, but he did his best. It helped to remember Iona's face, imagining her standing before the fire, arms raised. She was real, this wasn't. This was Otherside, a place of gods and demons, of spirits and forces. He was just a tourist.

The blood began to reverse back into Richard, his wound knitting at atypical speed, even for him. One just had to know to work with the rules of the place. He wasn't used to it, but could adjust. By the time he was on his feet again, he had another sword in hand, identical to the other.

Charon had moved off, apparently seeking a certain spot in the long oval that formed the summit of the tor. Richard thought he might be looking for the hidden opening that led inside the tor itself, though why he'd want to was beyond reckoning. They'd each taken that path once. Richard had barely survived. He'd often wondered how Charon had escaped from the shattered and crumbling earth, and if he was worried about guardians, there were the Hounds. Annwyn's cold pets resided in that secret place. He would think the Grail would protect him, and well it might. Richard did not know. The hounds could also be loose and flying in the storm; this was their season to hunt.

Softly, softly, he eased forward, though it was unlikely anything could be heard with the stormy row above.

Yet Charon was aware of him and turned. He laughed once, shaking his head, then looked at the sky. "Sweetheart-honey-baby, don't you know when to quit?"

Apparently he still thought Richard was some kind of simulacrum fashioned by the Goddess. Richard went into his guard position, sword at an angle, his other arm up to fend off blows.

"I said hold still." Charon glared, and Richard froze.

He couldn't help himself. He only has as much power as I give to him. 

"That's better . . ." The sword in Charon's hand changed, metal shifted into wood, a sharp, barbed point formed on one end. When the transformation finished, Charon rammed the newly-made spear square into Richard's chest.

Tried, to, anyway. This time Richard ducked clear. Very fast.

"Oh, that's cool, you finally figured—whoa!" His turn to duck, as Richard waded in.

Sword against spear, reach against power and speed. Their pass was over in seconds, neither achieving an advantage.

"Sweet," said Charon, puffing. "Just try not to have too much fun."

Richard feinted quick to the right, cut left and across, and felt his blade slam hard into the wood staff of the spear. The impact went up his arm as it had a thousand times and more for him, from those summers sweating his youth away hacking at a practice post to his days of manhood fighting and killing to keep his king on the throne. Charon barely got his guard up in time to avoid losing his head.

Richard circled him, kept him turning, most of his focus on Charon, another part mindful of the storm and the creatures caught in its chaos. If any of them managed to break free and descend . . .  best not to think about that lest it happen. Using his speed he got in under Charon's guard, knocking the spear to the side and hacking down decisively with the blade. It passed through air, not flesh, and he had to spin with the momentum to maintain his balance.

"Oh, very fancy move, I'm sure," said Charon. He looked more out of breath than he should have been for the effort made. Perhaps all that was needed was to wear him down. "But you're playing out of your league."

Richard went for a layered attack combination, swift, clean, but battering with its force. Charon barely kept up, unable to counter until the last second, when he managed to bang the dull end of the spear into Richard's shoulder. There was just enough force behind it to make him pause.

"You're not so bad for a puppet." Charon squinted, cocking his head. "Unless you're . . ."

Richard mirrored the head tilt. "The real deal? Wake up and smell the coffee."

Charon was baffled a moment. Good. "Oh, no. Nononono. No way."

Oh, yes, you bastard.  

"Dickie-boy? That really you?"

No reply seemed required.

"Well, I'll be damned."

That's the idea.

Hastily, Charon shoved the Grail into his overcoat pocket and brought the spear to bear in both hands for a proper defense. The cut in it smoothed over, and the wood turned ebony dark. It likely was indeed ebony. More difficult to break. No matter. Richard's real target was soft enough.

Another pass, longer in duration, and Charon had to retreat to make use of the spear's length. It was too unwieldy for this kind of combat. Charon changed the spear back to a sword, something from a later time that was lighter and swifter than Richard's weapon, designed for stabbing as well as hacking. He knew how to use it, too.

Another pass. Richard felt like he was fighting his own distorted image. Neither made contact, neither advanced or retreated.

Charon grinned, pulling the Grail out once more and clutching it close to his chest. His face looked less skull-like than a moment ago. He was using it in some way to replenish himself even if he couldn't see the effect except by inference. Charon's form was filling out, getting stronger. Better shut that down before he got too robust.

Richard's own blade became lighter, turning into one he'd used in a much later century. Their fighting styles changed to suit the weapons and their next pass was considerably faster. Each took a nick, and each healed.

"Uh-oh. Looks like we're too evenly matched, Lance old boy. That won't last, though." Charon brought the Grail up, holding it before him. His form lit, briefly, white fire that turned an unhealthy green and seemed to sink into his flesh. When the glow faded he looked completely restored and far too happy about it.

At his feet, in a rough ten-foot circle, the grass had turned bone white, each blade desiccated and needle thin. Even the ground looked dead.

Richard held off from another attack, wary, alert.

He didn't see it. He felt it. Like an invisible wall smashing him all over. It slammed him right off his feet and seemed to fall on him to hold him in place.

Laughter. Not good. Charon loomed close. Without delay he put his sword point over Richard's heart and pushed.

That hurt. A lot. The breath rushed from him too fast to form a scream and refused to return.

Charon grinned, eyes dancing. "Face it, Dickie-boy, in this place my fu is better than your fu."

Pushed. Charon slammed downward until the hilt was against Richard's chest. The razoring blade stabbed through flesh, splintered bone . . . piercing through his body into the soil of the tor.

The earth screamed for him.

Philip, palms to his ears, bent almost double against the onslaught of noise. It was the insane shriek of a factory whistle, but much louder and strangely organic, as though from a living throat, not a machine, and it took the starch right out of his legs. He staggered, but struggled to stay in place. Richard had somehow recovered from that terrible wounding and gotten up—eyes still closed, dammit—but was now fallen again and worse off than before. He lay spread-eagled, obviously in great pain and unable to move.

Neither Iona nor Michael had budged, though they'd recoiled at the sound. What did they see? 

He shut his eyes, but perceived only the dim red flicker of the firelight playing on his lids. Why was he here? He wasn't doing any of them a damned bit of good. He looked again to Iona. Despite the cold, her face was sheened with sweat, almost glowing from it. Her outspread arms shook as though barely supporting a great weight.

"Iona! Help him!" he bellowed.

She didn't seem to hear.

Michael's face also shone in the firelight, silver and gold with his fair hair and dark skin. Philip called to him, but got no response. His every instinct told him something had gone wrong, and he felt desperately ill-equipped to deal with it. Iona had only told him he was to "be there," whatever that meant. Here where he stood or "there," as in whatever place Richard had gone?

This time Iona snapped no objection when Philip darted over to check on him. He was bleeding out again, a fearful and clearly fatal chest wound but no sign of what caused it. His eyes were still fast shut, and he struggled desperately to breathe, blood bubbling from his lips and nose. Oh, God—another attack like the one that had taken Sabra?

Philip lay a hand on Richard's forehead—so cold, corpse cold. "Richard!"

His friend flinched at the touch and groaned. "Where are you?" he whispered.

"Right here, dammit. Open your eyes!"

"They are op . . . Philip?"

He sounded so lost. Philip shook Richard. "Wake up!"

The shrieking rose and grew louder. A strange icy wind slapped Philip's face; it stank of destruction and rot, the stench filling his lungs, treacle-thick. He gagged and fell back, but this was no time to give in to trivialities.

Then a wholesome cloud of sage and sweetgrass smoke enveloped him, so dense his eyes watered. It fought the death-stink, though he could still smell that. He dragged out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes, then held it to his nose to filter the air. How could a man think with this going on?

"Richard?" He groped with his free hand, but encountered—what the hell?—wet grass? Not snow? He scrubbed his eyes again and blinked at the impossibility, trying to take in the change around him. The earthy howling was the same, even louder, but the fire in the circle of trees had quite vanished along with Iona and Michael. He knelt on open ground, a bleak wind tearing at his clothes and there lay Richard . . .

Oh, no . . .  

Richard fought off the physical shock and tried to rise, but the angles were wrong, and the more he struggled the greater the screaming from below. He paused, remembering his real body was elsewhere. The pain eased, but he was still stuck fast, his blood pouring out. For a moment he thought he heard Bourland's voice, distant and harsh, calling to him and tried to respond.

Where was Charon?

"Richard!" Bourland again, sounding scared. He had every right.

He called back, but could hardly hear himself. Charon had stolen all the air.

A dark shape began to tentatively emerge on his right. Charon again? But it was taller, less certain in its movements.

"Philip?" He could only mouth the name, but a name had power. Philip—over here! 

The shape came closer, seemed to suddenly kneel, feeling its way on the ground.

Philip! Thinking of him made him more real on this Side, though what it would do to the man's sanity . . .

And he was there. Most of him. Staring around, dumbfounded.

Then horrified, when his gaze fell on Richard.

Richard gestured weakly at the thing pinning him to the earth, pleading, hoping Bourland would understand.

"You're not really here," he said. His form wavered. Richard could see through him to the red clouds above. "Neither of us . . . we can't be."

Take it out! Richard's gaze pressed hard upon his friend. He struggled and managed to mouth the words. He knew the sword was not real; he should have been able to will it away on his own, but the agony and terror were too distracting. He needed help.

Bourland hesitated, then visibly made up his mind. His ghostly hands solidified, grasped the hilt, and pulled in one awful effort. The shrieking din ceased. Substantiality traveled up Bourland's arms, finally encompassing his body. He was now fully on this Side, white-faced and frightened. "My God, if I've killed you . . ."

"I'll be fine," Richard gasped. But to make a lie of it, he heeled over and began coughing. It's a damned nasty business to drown in one's own blood.

Bourland stared as Richard grimaced and groaned through a difficult healing. "But you've been run though!"

"The rules . . . are different . . . here." It was slower going this time. The pain didn't leave him as it should have. He felt as weak as when recovering from that bridge fall, less able to concentrate. "Where's Charon?"

"No sign of him."

That couldn't be good, but there was no going after him for the moment. Richard tried willing his lost blood back into himself again. God, but it was hard to think, to visualize. The longer he was here, the more real this Side became to him, and the more damage he could suffer. "The others?"

"In the clearing by the fire, standing with their eyes shut the same as you. Only you fell . . ."

"Remember that place. It's our anchor. If things get strange, picture Michael and Iona, picture that place in your mind and go toward it."

"If they get strange . . . ?"

Richard missed the rest, if any, doubling over again.

"Whups," yelped Sharon, as the serpent god made a sudden move in a direction opposite to where they'd been traveling. Fortunately the walls formed by his body were somewhat flexible. She was bruised, nothing broken. She maneuvered over to the opening. The light was brighter, flickering, and the air that beat against her face was an uneasy mix of ozone and rotting meat.

They were in the midst of churning clouds, lightning flowered everywhere. One tremendous bolt shot from side to side of her measureless horizon, and this time there was noise. The boom thrummed right through the god's body and hers. He shifted. Sharon pushed back in time, getting her hands clear from being crushed. Her long narrow window sealed up, shutting her in the dark again.

She still felt the thunder or whatever was out there. In here it wasn't loud so much as deep, and the vibration very unpleasant, like a boom box set on maximum. Too loud to hear, you only felt it. Putting her hands over her ears helped. Kukulcan didn't seem to like it either, for he made a lot more moves than before, and she pitched from one point of her sphere to the other.

What was going on out there that would so agitate a god?

The blast of sound knocked Charon completely off his feet. He somehow kept hold of the Grail, pulling himself in tight like a tumbler, protecting it from seeking hands with his body. No one and nothing tried to make a grab, though he felt something buffeting him around like a soccer ball.

Earth Mommy is pissed as hell, he thought, when he finally stopped rolling.

It had been quite a near fall. He was partway down one flank of the tor, and had only stopped by twisting to one side on a marginally broader section of the maze path. The top was a hike and a half distant. He had the energy for it now, but suspected his time was short, especially with the weird weather banging around overhead.

NOT my fault. That was just a byproduct resulting from taking his Realside corporeal body through to Otherside. You weren't supposed to do that. It weakened structures, ripped veils, and messed up all kinds of other inconvenient crappola. Well, too bad, he was here and would leave only after he got what he wanted. Deal with it.

He had to get to the top again. That last bout with the jock had opened a window of enlightenment. After the business in Chichén Itzá with Big Snaky's blood doing such a world of help, Charon had an insight on how to accomplish the same thing here, but better. This time the healing would be permanent. He could go back to Realside hale and hearty enough to enjoy the fun and games that would take place when some of the more dangerous denizens of Otherside found their way through.

Predators were always looking for fresh hunting grounds. He had no problem with that since he would be the one at the top of the food chain. He would feed from them, while they fed from all the little pink monkeys that had taken over the planet. They were over-populated anyway. Not that they weren't efficient at thinning their own numbers down, but there were other, more fun ways of going about it. In a couple of months the chaos would set things back to a nicer, slower time, maybe about half-past the Dark Ages, with no Renaissance to haul them out of the muck. Hell, he could probably start up another religion again. It'd been a couple thousand years since the last time he'd played that game. He could introduce an inside-out Rubik's cube of conflicting dogmas for them to fight over then kick back with the remote and a six-pack to watch the fun.

Charon began climbing. He tucked the Grail into his pocket again, so he could use his hands when needed. He had to crabwalk to get up the steeper bits, but that was faster than taking the maze path. After a few minutes exhaustion swooped on him and he paused, pulled the Grail out and used it to replenish himself. Jeez, the stuff was leaking out as fast as he could pour it in. There would be no second chances on this gig. He'd have to make it work right the first time.

Now . . . about the jock. How in hell had he gotten here? Never mind surviving his dip in the river and what it must have done to him. He'd pulled through it somehow and waltzed into Otherside easy-peasy, all ready to kick ass and take names.

And that had created no further disturbances to the windy climate . . .

Which meant he'd done it the Boy Scout way and followed the rules . . .

Which meant his real body was someplace else.

Which meant he had help.

But his witchy girlfriend was deader'n Dixie. Of that Charon was certain. He'd sucked her so dry in the hospital that even divine intervention from her hot shot Goddess wouldn't have brought her back.

So who else was out there directing the show? Had Dun recruited a gaggle of dippy New Agers to dance nekked in the woods for him? Nah, not his style to bring in a group. He was too much the loner. Maybe he had another girlfriend waiting in the wings. He did love to spread himself around and once they spread for him they tended to be devoted for life. Even Sherry-pie had screamed his name before big Wormy caught her. What was it about the guy? The baby blues or his aftershave?

Another girlfriend . . . and she was probably someone close . . . a blood relation, perhaps?

Charon looked at his hands. Well-well—Dun's gore was all over them, how about that? It was messy business, killing, but in this case he didn't mind. He was pretty sure he could improvise something. It wouldn't take much to backtrack. Dickie-boy wouldn't trust his safety to just anyone.

"Come on," Charon whispered. "Talk to papa. Tell me everything you know."

He rubbed his hands against his face, breathing in, smearing the red over his eyelids. The psychic link of the blood here to its Realside originator would be very strong. Yeah, that gave him a fix . . . follow the blood trail to . . . a cozy little cabin in the back of beyond. The same one he'd burgled. He could see it settled in a nest of white drifts, like one of those water globe scenes with the fake snow swirling inside. Very tiny, lots of detail . . . a light over there . . . a fire with four figures at the compass points. Jeez, were they predictable or what? One of the figures was down, that would be the jock, another had left his appointed spot to look after the fallen. The balances would be dangerously off because of that.

So who else was there? A kid? Not him. And that woman . . . who was . . . ? Well, I'll be dipsy-doodled. The bitch that clawed his eye out was running this ride. Wow, look at her working it. She wasn't used to this kind of load. The others weren't carrying their share, either. She wouldn't be able to hold out against . . . ah, just surprise her. Something quick and dirty. Then maybe he could get on with things.

Oh, yeah: Keep It Simple, Stupid.

They were usually very hung up on symbolism. Yank one thing out of place—that should be enough to buy him protection against more interference.

Charon shut his eyes, cupping his hands before him and imagined the cabin and the woods squarely in his palms. When the image was fixed and strong, he blew hard, like it was a birthday cake with countless candles to snuff.

The fire in the clearing went out.

"Nighty-night," he said, then clapped once.

"Your bleeding's stopped," said Bourland.

Richard had noticed. As soon as he could get up, he would. It felt good to lie here, even if it was freezing and on wet grass. He imagined the strength of the land flowing into him. Not the same as fresh blood but it would do for the time being.

The storm seemed to be in a kind of holding pattern, still full of fury, but not growing worse. Perhaps the blast of sound resulting from Charon's last attack had also knocked him for six. If they could find him before he recovered . . .

"Hand me that sword, would you?"

Bourland reluctantly passed it over, the one that had too recently been buried in Richard's chest. Damn, there was a hellish ache there still. Which wasn't real. Just have to ignore—no—remember Iona's face, ruddy in the firelight, the sage smoke playing about her as she chanted. Richard thought he could hear her voice.

The pain ebbed. Finally. Even the stains on his shirt vanished. He took a deep draught of air and did not cough it out again. "Help me up?" he asked.

"It's too soon."

"Not soon enough. Come on."

Bourland hauled, and Richard used the sword like a cane for balance as he came upright. He swayed, lightheaded a moment, then got his legs. He should have been famished, but only felt a nervous restlessness to get going. Quickly, he explained to Bourland a little of what to expect.

"Charon's attempt to heal himself will probably tear open a rift between the Sides, and it can't be allowed."

Bourland worked to take it in. He really was trying. "But aren't there forces in place to head off that sort of thing? Guardians and such? Iona let that much drop. We can't be the only ones to stop him."

"He's from our Reality. It's our job. And I rather think the guardians might be busy." Richard gestured at the storm. The weather in Realside Glastonbury was probably verging on the catastrophic. He stooped then straightened, picking up his own dropped blade. There, the blood rush to his brain wasn't too bad. The migraine-like agony only lasted a few seconds. "Take this."

Bourland accepted the sword readily, but shook his head. "Fencing wasn't exactly my sport at school. I still have my Walther." He touched the spot under his left arm where it was holstered. "Will it work here?"

Richard hadn't expected that. "Maybe. If you think it will. But cold iron will be better, even if it is imaginary."

"I'll take imagined hot brass and lead over imagined cold iron any day, thank you very much." But Bourland kept hold of the sword and looked around. "What about Charon?"

"He might have wrapped himself in darkness again. Put your back to mine and keep your eyes open for movement. We'll work toward the center. He seemed interested in that area."

"Oh, lord." But Bourland did as he was told and they gradually made their way over. "What's with the fancy dress?" He was still in his modern clothes, the long coat and somber dark suit he'd worn to the memorial service.

"When we pass to this Side we have what we need." That would account for Bourland being armed with his handgun. He didn't know on a subconscious level that it might not work here, so it was with him. Richard wasn't sure why he was in his old clothes, but they felt right to him.

"I suppose every place needs civil servants," Bourland conceded. "I'd look damn silly in tights anyway."

"They're not tights."

"People really used to dress like that?"

"Yes."

"My God."

"You over the shock, yet?"

Bourland snorted, getting the message. "Yes, all right. You said it'd be unsettling, I'm unsettled. We're here. Now what?"

"Stop him when he shows himself. And ignore everything he says. His voice has power in this place, though he might not use that attack again."

"This is really Glastonbury?"

"For all intents and purposes."

"Is it supposed to smell so bad?" Bourland held the handkerchief to his face again.

"That's his doing. I think he's feeding from the energies here, and it's made an opening that's not supposed to exist."

"Opening to where?"

"Places that are usually sealed. Remember those creatures from Michael's visions?"

Clearly he did.

"I think they're in the storm. There's some nasty things that can come through, so watch out for them. If you get the chance, take the Grail from Charon and run like hell."

"Run where?"

"Back to Iona. Picture her and Michael and the fire in the circle. She'll do the rest."

"My real body's still there, isn't it?"

"Yes. As is mine."

"What about Charon? Where's his real body?"

That stopped Richard short. "An excellent question."

"A damned obvious one. Why don't we look for it instead?"

"Because unless he brought it through to here—which would be horrifically stupid—it's probably in Realside Glastonbury and we're not."

Bourland's brief, one-word response fully reflected his Anglo-Saxon ancestry. "Then we take him out here, no holds barred."

"That's the plan."

"But—"

The specifics of Bourland's objection were lost to Richard. In the same moment both men pitched forward. Richard tasted green grass, its sweetness marred by the slaughterhouse stink of the air, then the grass turned into snow.

He caught a strong whiff of sage and blinked against stinging smoke. The red storm clouds wavered, an unsteady projection superimposed upon a screen of tall trees. What the hell . . . ?

Their circle, the fire . . . out . . . how had that happened?

Bourland looking around in confusion, Iona chanting, her voice harsh and desperate, trying to hold things together, and Michael . . .  bless the boy, he was busy, quickly dropping more wood into place. Was he somehow taller or was that an illusion of his Otherside self? He lighted a fire starter and shoved it into the kindling, then lighted another and another, adding them in until the blaze was nearly as strong as before. Thank heaven for modern conveniences. He returned into his place again. The last Richard saw of him before Glastonbury reasserted itself was the boy flashing a sudden grin and a thumb's up sign.

Bourland hastily lurched to his feet. "Bloody hell!"

"Just a setback, keep your eyes open." How long had they been gone? Long enough, apparently, as time was reckoned here. Charon now knelt in the center of where St. Michael's tower stood on Realside and with a thick-bladed knife hacked strongly at the earth there. No screams erupted from this activity, though. The Goddess must have done something to compensate or had sealed that doorway off. He'd never find his way in.

Richard murmured in Bourland's ear. "I'll distract him, you come up from behind." Each man split off in a different direction; Richard saw to it he approached Charon from the front, coming up fast.

That got him noticed right away. Charon paused his digging and scowled. "Damn, but you're harder to shake than a case of the runs. I don't have time for this!"

"Get up then. You can try for three out of three."

He showed teeth. "Third one's the charm? That's how you guys like to work, isn't it? If you really focused, you could get it right the first—"

Richard found a way to shut him up. Charon blocked the attack at the last instant, his knife blade ringing against the extended sword. He followed through, launching a full body tackle and over they rolled. Richard hammered swift, hard knuckle stabs at the pressure points within his reach, getting grunts of pain in return.

The Grail.  

In one of Charon's pockets. Richard could feel it through the material. He closed his hand over it to rip it free, but Charon anticipated and hammered right back—using the knife. It startled Richard, and before he could react to the pain he was abruptly tossed clear by a decisive judo-like throw. Charon had ever been strong, but not like this. The storm-troubled sky switched places with the tor several times before Richard came to a stop. He kept hold of the sword and instinctively brought it 'round to block a blow, but none fell. He'd landed in a heap, breathless and sluggish. It was as though his strength had been sucked out, and he dully realized that's exactly what had happened. Charon was a black hole, feeding, feeding, feeding.

Richard didn't dare risk more physical contact, had to keep a distance between. He got up, feeling heavy and clod-footed, willing himself to heal. Where was Bourland?

Two flat pops on the foul wind. Two more. Gun shots. Richard hurried toward the sound.

Bourland was in a shooting stance, braced with left hand cupping the right, his Walther aimed square, point blank range. He knew what he was doing; there was no way he could possibly miss at ten feet, but Charon refused to fall over.

"That's been tried before," he told Bourland. "It didn't work then, either."

Not one to waste time, Bourland obligingly grabbed up his sword. He must have had some fencing classes once upon a time, but wasn't an expert. The most he could hope to do to stay alive would be to keep backing out of range.

Charon shook his head. "Oh, now you've got to be kidding." But instead of his knife, he pulled out the Grail, holding it high. Once more his form lit up with a white flash, but the force went outward from him, striking Bourland like a club. He dropped. Charon turned, grinning. "Hey! Dickie-boy! Can I throw a party or what?"

Using his speed, Richard charged forward, but stopped short as Charon raised the Holy Cup again.

"Don't even think it or I'll fry you, too."

Richard had no fear for himself, but Bourland . . . he lay prone and unmoving. "Philip!"

He heard a groan. Alive, thank God, but needing recovery time.

"Philip! Stay down."

"No problem," came a muffled reply.

Charon's knife had turned into a sword, and he pressed its point into the back of Bourland's black overcoat, making a dent.

"Come on over, or Mr. GQ here gets stapled to the ground, and I don't think he's got your way of bouncing back."

Richard warily approached. "You don't want to do that. The Goddess was less than pleased the last time."

"Thanks for the hint, I'll be sure not to run him through too far, but hey—who'd a thought she'd turn out to be a screamer, huh? And, oh, gosh, where is she, anyway? Haven't heard a peep from her, and I've been doing some major damage to her real estate. Letting her knight-errants do all the dirty work is kinda tough on you. Will she be around to kiss your boo-boos when the smoke clears?"

He's fishing for information. He might not be able to sense her, even with the Grail in hand. "You're restored yourself, just leave. The longer you're here the greater the risk you run for retaliation. It's not something you'd like."

"I'm touched you care, but life don't work so simple. If it did I wouldn't have had to haul my ass all over creation to get anything done for myself. Do you have any idea just how stingy the powers that be are with their healing mojo? We only get the tiniest crumbs of what's really out there."

"Meaning if you leave, you're back to dying?"

"At hyperspeed, pal. Not on my event horizon. What I've got here is just bandage work. I want a total fix and some extra to get myself back to how it used to be. You and that freaking Injun Josephine did this to me, so don't think I'm unappreciative. I wanna make sure you each get my personal thanks."

"We cured you from having your beast take you over."

"Screw that, you thought you were killing me, which I get from a lot of people, but they never carried it as far as you did."

"Pity."

"Can it. Where's your Mother Nature wanna-be hiding herself?" Charon shifted the sword point to the back of Bourland's neck. "Come on—or I do a tracheotomy the hard way."

"That's a hell of a storm going on, she could be busy with it."

The gale was right on top of the tor. Still no rain, but the lightning seemed to be having a vast battle with itself, yet there wasn't as much noise as there should have been. Unnatural stuff. At this short distance it should have been stitching the earth, but perhaps the Goddess was preventing that, protecting her sacred ground from further harm.

When Charon glanced up, Richard lunged. Even if that damned parasite drained him empty, he'd find the strength to snap his spine first. Richard slammed his blade through Charon's body, the metal violently disrupting the forces bounded within his flesh.

An almighty flash engulfed the three of them, an inhuman shriek, and Richard felt a massive shock tear up his arm and blast through his body. He fell away, blinded, limbs twitching as the current ripped through his nervous system.

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