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Chapter Six

Toronto, the Present

Several witnesses to the southbound accident on Highway 400 used their cell phones, reporting it almost in the same moment it happened. People stopped to help, emergency vehicles arrived, evaluations were made, and Sabra was transported by care flight to St. Michael's hospital downtown. By the time Richard arrived with Bourland and Michael she'd been whisked off to emergency surgery.

The nurses and the EMTs could not provide Richard much in the way of detail and nothing at all about Sabra's prognosis, only that she was concussed, with broken bones and possible internal injuries; it would be up to the doctor to give him full information. They did express amazement that she was still alive, so that was a good sign, where there's life there's hope and all that. Apparently her car had been thoroughly mangled. One of those who'd pulled her free called her survival a miracle.

Richard attributed this to the protection of Sabra's Goddess, but why not have spared her priestess from injury in the first place? He couldn't understand. Was the instigator—and Richard had no doubt the man he'd seen on the pyramid was responsible—that powerful?

Perhaps so.

Then why was Sabra a target? Because she'd been in the vision? Richard had been present as well, right in front, picked out for special attention from the great snake until it was drawn away toward Sharon. Surely that had been noticed by the shadowy figure who had thrown her from the top.

Of course, Sabra might have looked to be the stronger threat to the Otherside man. The rules were different there. Richard's unique strengths might count for nothing compared to her Gifts.

I must know more.  

Sabra was his only source for an explanation, and she'd been—not cut down—made neutral. He winced at the euphemism. It was a cowardly retreat from reality. But he used it all the same. He wasn't ready for reality, not that kind. He never would be. She had to survive. Recover. Return.

Anything else . . .

He teetered on the edge of falling into a black, black pit, and willed himself away from it.

Focus on what's at hand. On what you can do. 

All right. Sabra perhaps wasn't the only source for help, if Richard wanted to include Michael, which he certainly would not. The boy was frightened and confused enough, he didn't need to be dealing with questions about his visions. He was yet in shock about the accident. White-faced with his lips firmly shut, he couldn't help but be remembering his mother and sisters' deaths.

Thank God Bourland seemed aware of that and kept himself close, talking to him. They sat side by side on a waiting room bench, Bourland still in his day-off clothes, including the now inappropriate slippers. Michael had hastily pulled on jeans and track shoes with no socks for the drive to the hospital. They could thank Bourland for knowing which one; he'd managed to trace Sabra's destination. Even as he comforted Michael, he made phone calls. Before long a sober-faced man with the look of a bureaucrat turned up in the waiting room. He held a brief whispered conference with Bourland, then proceeded to run interference between them and anyone approaching with a clipboard and papers to sign. When one of the hospital officials questioned his authority, he flashed some sort of identification that made the potential difficulty magically vanish.

His shielding efforts left them free to wait and worry and hope.

Richard, though, was frozen to all feelings except that of absolute helplessness. The woman he loved more than life could be dying only yards away.

It was impossible.

Unthinkable.

If they would just tell him something.

More than anything he feared the approach of a very sympathetic sad-faced doctor come to break the news that the worst had happened.

My blood can spare her from death.  

Maybe. His heart raced at the prospect. He wanted it to be so.

The only thing that prevented him from bursting into the operating room was a conversation he'd had with Sabra on that very subject. He'd not thought it fair that she was fully human again. It put her desperately at risk and sooner or later she would die. For all her joy at being able to walk freely in the day again, it seemed an uneven trade. What were a few decades in the sun compared to centuries more of life?

But Sabra said the magic wouldn't work twice. "We can exchange blood as we did before, and though there would be mutual pleasure in the act, it won't change me."

"Why not?" he wanted to know.

She shrugged. "It could be magic or biochemistry or something to do with immunity factors. I'm not a scientist. Suffice that the Goddess's gift was given once and once only. She's passed this other gift to me to use, and that is how it must be."

He knew better than to voice his opinion that the so-called advantages of being human were hardly comparable.

Sabra must have read his heart, but did not rebuke him for it. "That chapter of my life is past," she said with cheerful conviction. "This is how I can best serve her purpose, and it's ever been well for us, has it not? I must go forward, never back, forward to wherever I'm supposed to be and do."

But she couldn't have anticipated this.

And seemingly, neither had the Goddess.

Another impossibility.

The man-thing on that pile of stones, a shadow shape, outlined in sickly green light . . . Sabra said he'd had protections. Had they concealed him that well? Even from a deity?

"Richard." Bourland's voice.

He snapped back to the drab waiting room, coming instantly alert. As if in fulfillment of his fear a tired-looking doctor was at the door talking to Bourland's watchdog, who let the man pass.

The news wasn't good, but neither was it the worst.

He also spoke of internal injuries, crushed limbs, concussion, the car's airbags had done only so much. Richard couldn't take in the technical details or terms; his mind could only cope with the basics. She was out of surgery, still in critical condition, but stabilized. He liked that word, so far as it went.

The doctor added that she was better off than they'd expected, given the damage. She'd survived this long, now they had to wait and see.

"But there's nothing any of you can do here. She's unconscious and there's no telling when she'll wake up. If there's a change of any kind, the nurse will call you."

Richard let Bourland ask all the questions, but the answers were never any different. She was alive, barely, and had a small chance. That she'd gotten this far was a good sign, but wait and see, wait and see . . .

When it came down to it, medicine used the same language as faith and magic.

"I want to see her," said Richard. His voice sounded strange. He was prepared to be refused, but the doctor nodded and passed them off to a nurse, who guided them to the intensive care unit.

They were only allowed to look through the glass inset of a door. The ward beyond was festooned with functional-looking medical equipment and several beds. Three had occupants. With the obstruction of the in-place paraphernalia it took him a moment to sort Sabra from the others. That wasn't right. He should have spotted her instantly. He could always sense where she was when nearby.

"Is she dying?" asked Michael.

"No," Bourland and Richard chorused together.

Richard's tone was denial; Bourland's was reassurance.

Richard could pick out the sting of disinfectant they'd used on her from here. And the scent of her blood. It was so faint, all but overwhelmed by necessary intrusions of her meds. There was a mask on her face, probably for oxygen, needles taped to the back of her hands and tubes attached to the needles snaked up to bags on pole stands. Her head and shoulders were immobilized, and leads to monitors were connected to her pale, pale skin. A nurse was checking something or other, the routine of her movements encouraging. So long as she continued calm with no undue worry . . . yes, that was good.

Bourland kept his hands on Michael's shoulders as they stared with him through the glass barrier. "I know it's very frightening, but all the things they have in there are to help her get better. Her body's been through a bad shock, and it will be a while before she can talk to us again. Remember when you slipped during hockey practice and landed so hard on your back?"

"I couldn't breathe."

"Knocked the breath right out of you. That's pretty much what's happened to Sabra."

"Only worse."

"Yes," he admitted. "But you were able to get up after a bit. Give her some time and she'll come around, too."

Is that for me as well as Michael? This man, who was but a fraction of Richard's age and experience, was working to reassure them all. And to some degree succeeding.

"How long?" asked Michael.

"I don't know, but they'll tell us." Bourland pulled out a business card and gave it to the nurse. "My private cell number, for any change. Richard."

With much effort he dragged his gaze from the small sheeted figure on the stainless-steel bed. Only sheets? Wouldn't she be cold? "W-what?"

"Michael and I are going home—"

"But I don't want to, Dad."

"It's just for a little bit, then we'll come back."

"I can stay here with Uncle Richard."

"No doubt, but we're ill prepared for a long wait, and I rather think that's what this might be. Richard will hold the fort. You and I have things to do, then we'll relieve him."

A spark of rebellion crossed Michael's face, but he nodded. "We'll come right back?"

"Yes. I want to be here for her, too."

Richard felt selfishly glad it was Bourland's chosen lot to look after Michael. He would not have been able to do so, not with that level of confidence. He shot Bourland a look and was shaken by a flash of intense agony in his friend's eyes that had somehow not affected his calm, in-charge tone of voice. How was he able to hide that from the boy?

"You'll be all right?" Bourland asked.

Richard knew his reply had damned well better be a yes. He managed a nod and fished out his keys. "Use the Rover. I'll phone you every thirty minutes until you're back."

"Well, in that case, I'll want an assistant to take on the extra load." Bourland gave his cell to Michael. "That's your job."

"For real?" He clutched the phone. He had his own, of course, regulated to his backpack and used primarily for keeping track of his after-school whereabouts, but this was a step up from it. His father routinely got calls from people like the prime minister.

"Don't go all heady from the power. Come on, then. Let's see if Richard's in a no-parking area."

"Will you fix the ticket if he is?"

"Certainly not. Do him some good to go to court." He herded the distracted Michael toward the hall and elevators. The watchdog reappeared there, listened to Bourland, then moved purposely off, apparently with an errand to do.

Richard continued to look through the glass until a nurse—he wasn't sure if she was the same one—got his attention and suggested he might be more comfortable in the nearby waiting room. An impossibility, but he was blocking traffic, so he retreated to a dull chamber with muted lighting and old magazines. There were Bibles on a table in French and English and a bin loaded with bright plastic toys. Thankfully there was no television. He'd have smashed it.

After two minutes of silence broken by people whisking back and forth in the hall, their rubber soles squeaking on the polished floor, he quit his corner chair and went to the ICU entry to peer again.

Nothing had changed since his last look. That was good. If she was quiet, she was healing.

He couldn't bring himself to return to the waiting room and paced down the long hall, past the nurse's station to the end. Bright lights, mysterious voices paging names over the loudspeakers, the smell of illness overlaid with the scent of cut flowers, centrally heated desert-dry air—how on earth could people work here? This was hell to him.

He pushed through the exit doors and took the stairs on the other side, not clear about reaching any particular place, just needing to keep on the move. Eventually he emerged, wandered, oriented, and either by chance or guided by an invisible influence found himself in the hospital's chapel. From the activity by the altar they were holding mass.

Richard stood at the back, listening without really hearing. This was a matter of feelings, not words. The atmosphere, whether here or places like Chartres or under the open sky, was always the same for him. The smell of candle wax and incense were instantly comforting, inducing a strange hush within him, reviving a frequently dormant, but ever-present connection to something larger than himself.

He slipped quietly into one of the pews, bowed his head, and sought to find what he needed in that vastness.

Bourland's man proved himself uncommonly useful and inconspicuously, if not supernaturally, efficient. When Richard returned to the ICU area, he found that Sabra had been moved to a special glass-windowed room at the far end. This alarmed him until the man explained that it was Bourland's doing. Strings had been pulled. Because of this change Richard would be allowed to sit with her so long as he was quiet and kept out of the way of the staff.

He could do that. Anything to be closer. He humbly thanked the man and went in.

She looked so small and frail. Where was the strength that made her seem so much greater than the limits of her form?

Very carefully, as though it might add to her injuries if he moved too fast, he gently took one of her hands. Her fingers were so cold and inert he had to look to make sure he was holding them.

He bent low, lips to her ear, murmuring just loud enough to be heard over the beep of the monitors. "I'm here, Sabra. You were in an accident, but everything's going to be all right. You rest and get better and I'll watch over you."

He waited, but there was no sign that she'd heard, no flutter of eyelids or movement from her hand, no variation of her heartbeat. Well, he'd not really expected . . . but it would have been encouraging if . . .

I'll be right here. I promise, he repeated. Since it was a thought, he could speak in his mind as loud as he liked. He practically bellowed it.

Still no reaction. But he felt an odd certainty that he'd been heard. He kissed her cold fingers, backed away, and sat in the room's only chair which was against the far wall a few feet from the foot of the bed. He watched her steadily, unblinking for a few moments, then pulled out his cell to make his first call to Bourland.

Bourland and Michael returned as promised. They'd kitted themselves out with proper clothes and seemed prepared to settle in for the duration. Michael insisted on sitting with Sabra, promising to be very quiet and still. Children were not supposed to be in the ICU, but there was no way they could deny him. Richard spoke with someone in charge and an exception was made.

"Any more phase outs?" he asked as he and Bourland retired to the outer waiting room.

"No, thank God."

"Did he say anything about the last one?"

"Hardly says anything at all. He was remarkably cooperative, though, about getting ready to return here. I'd say he's worried, but not in such a way as we need worry about him. It's like he's getting down to business, where other children might panic and go weepy."

"Startled?"

Bourland shook his head. "He's strong. Let's hope he won't have to draw on that strength. How are you?"

"Bloody awful, but it's easier to be able to sit near her. Thanks for that."

"If not me, then you'd have done it. This is how I deal with frustration." He had a laptop case with him and a phone, evidence that he would continue his work.

Several hours of turn-on-turn with no worsening of Sabra's condition seemed to bolster Michael's shaken confidence. Richard watched over him at a distance, on guard for problems, but the boy was the picture of self-possession, showing a depth of maturity that should have been beyond his years. On the other hand he'd been in various stages of therapy since the catastrophe with his family, so he must have had a wealth of psychological tools to help him contend with this crisis.

Bourland continued to deal with it via his mysterious labors. He took and made phone calls, and employed his assistant to make more. Richard got the impression that many things were being caused to happen elsewhere and on several levels, but checked his curiosity. When Bourland was ready to talk, he'd convey in detail what was going on.

Richard's own internal defenses were the result of considerable experience. He'd been in such situations before; he knew how to wait and the futility of fretting. But this was Sabra's life, which made the ordeal rawly new to him. When it came down to it, he was wholly terrified.

Not a damned thing he could do about it either.

He'd put his cell alarm on quiet mode. The silent jolt when it buzzed shouldn't have been a surprise, but it did make him twitch.

It was his Scotland Yard friend, with nothing too enlightening to report. He'd put the fear of God into the woman at Lloyd's, who again confirmed (more politely and with more details) what'd she'd said earlier about Sharon Geary. He then traced Sharon's movements as far as Heathrow. Her car was in one of their long-term lots, and she'd taken a flight to the Yucatán, buying the ticket direct from the airline's counter. Apparently her decision to take a trip had been a sudden and last-minute thing. Like other world travelers she carried her passport as a matter of course.

At a question from Richard, the man replied, "No, we found nothing unusual at either Stonehenge or Woodhenge . . . well, a few of those potty New Age types were upset about something or other at Stone. Said the place was ruined, but our man there couldn't make any sense of what had them so stirred up. One of the women was in moaning hysterics, had to be taken away by her friends. They told him the place had been bombed. He conducted a thorough look 'round with the staff, but they didn't spot any damage or ticking packages, that sort of thing."

Richard would have given a lot to have interviewed the New Agers. Obviously someone gifted with Sight had seen whatever had happened on Otherside. "What about the staff? Did they see or hear anything odd in the last few days?"

"Nothing like that. A few tourists fainted there today, I'm told, which certainly is not part of the normal run. They complained of headaches and keeled right over. The staff's in a dither worrying about lawsuits, but everyone recovered and went on their way. Put the blame on everything from jet lag to low blood sugar. There's one man who said the 'feel' of the place was off, but that's the limit. What's this about? Should we expect another rash of crop circles?"

"I think not."

"Good, because the farmers here are getting rather fed up about people sneaking into their fields and trampling over everything in the dead of night in the name of art. I know of one fellow threatening to electrify his fences if he could afford the rates."

"That won't keep out aliens."

"He's not worried about them, just losing his harvest to thrill seekers and tourists. I've told him to charge a fee every time one of them raises a camera."

Richard thanked his friend sincerely and rang off, wishing he had that frustrated farmer's problems instead of his own.

Around six o'clock Bourland persuaded Michael that it would be all right to go home for dinner, which would be better than the hospital food they'd snacked on throughout the day. Regardless of that and the situation, Michael had packed away an amazing amount of it. Richard was invited, but said he'd stay on. It was lonely after they left, but he was used to it.

He eased into the chair, his arms stiffly resting exactly along the line of its arms, hands bunched into fists until he forced them to hang loose. He watched the monitors, and speculated long and hard about attempting a blood exchange. It was impossible for Sabra to partake directly from him, but he could easily accomplish what was necessary with a syringe. God knows this place had enough of them lying about; he'd already nicked a couple without getting caught. But would it do more harm than good?

Or would it, as she said, make no matter at all?

He rather thought it would not, but perhaps . . . just to be sure, it mightn't hurt to at least try. Then he would know that he'd done everything within his power for her.

He was forced to wait. This was a 24/7 place, though he'd already picked up on the general rhythms around him. Sooner or later there would come an interval where he could make his move. To prepare for that he got the staff used to seeing him getting up and standing by her bedside, his head bowed, his back to the glass partition. No one looked twice that he could determine. In this facility they were accustomed to people openly praying, and there was a kind of selective blindness in effect that allowed privacy for spiritual matters. He would naturally take advantage of it and had only to bide his time for his best opportunity.

If Sabra had the time, if she remained stable. Should that change, then all cautions were off.

Sitting so still in the chair, Richard out of the blue fell asleep, snapped awake, was bewildered for a tenth of a second, relaxed as he recognized where he was, then tensed again. His neck and shoulders ached from being held in place. How long had he been out? It seemed only a moment.

His single clue that whole hours had fled and late afternoon had come was what his watch told him, and then he wasn't sure that it might be lying. There was no day or night in this part of the hospital; his body clock had its own unique process for marking time and for now was not to be trusted.

He checked the monitors. No change in the displays. They beeped on solemnly but held steady. So long as they continued smooth, all was—almost—well. To keep from jumping up every few minutes he'd earlier asked the nurse on duty a few quiet questions, and she gave him a briefing on how to read them, what was normal, what was not. He was a long way from her expertise, but the additional knowledge made him feel like he had a tiny measure of control over the situation, that perhaps he was more useful than before. He very much needed that.

The nurse came in, on schedule, checked Sabra's blood pressure and other stats, made notations on a clipboard, and asked Richard if he needed anything. He said not.

"You don't have to be here, you know," she said. "It's very exhausting to sit and do nothing."

"I'll be fine."

Apparently she'd seen the syndrome in many others and knew better than to disagree. She nodded sympathetically and left.

He had thirty minutes at least. She was busy with one of the other patients, and would next go to her desk station.

He rose to put his back to the window as he'd been doing throughout the day, effectively blocking all view of his actions. Not making untoward moves or looking in any way different, he drew the hypo from his pocket and quietly peeled off the plastic wrapping, removing the protective casing from the sharp end.

Having watched the nurse draw off samples from Sabra, he knew which catheter implanted in her arm to use to do the same. It had been a bit of a struggle to stand and coldly observe, but he got through it and now repeated those same steps.

Damned if it didn't work.

Hopefully Sabra wouldn't suffer from the minute loss.

Returning to the chair, he sat as before, throwing a casual look toward the next room. Business as usual. No one taking the least notice of him.

He inspected the hypo reservoir to see if there was a top he could pull off. No, the unit was sealed. Breaking it open would make a mess. Have to do it this way, then.

Gingerly resting the needle between his lips almost like a cigarette, his tongue tucked well back out of danger, he tried the plunger. The sudden stream of her blood, still warm, startled him. He swallowed.

The taste . . . chemicals . . . lots of those. Unidentifiable drugs, maybe antibiotics. Nothing that would affect him, but they were unsettling. He tried to discern some suggestion of her emotions, but it was as sterile as the out-of-date stuff he kept in his refrigerator. That was it, then, she was completely unconscious. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

He waited, watching the monitors, listening to the sounds of the ward, and feeling—or imagining that he felt—Sabra's blood working through his system. So small an amount would have no physical effect on him, it was strictly in his head. His mind alone supplied an image of its journey as it flowed to his belly, was absorbed, and eventually dispersed through his body. It needed time to mingle with his own unique blood.

The nurse came again, made her notations, and departed.

He'd been successful at not thinking about what came next. No putting it off now. He freed the second syringe from its plastic, took off the cap. My, but that end of it looked to be very shiny and sharp.

Grimace.

Richard hated, really, really hated the things. It was utterly absurd. He'd withstood sword gashes, arrow wounds, crossbow bolts, spears, bullets, bombs—name most of the weapons used in the last fifteen centuries and he'd likely been a target ten times over for all of them, but for some reason an inch-long hollow needle little thicker than thin wire absolutely put him in knots.

He could almost hear Sabra giggling at him.

Hypodermic, meaning "below skin"—derived from the Greek—syringe, descended from what they now called Middle Latin . . .

Stop stalling, old lad. Just get on with it.  

Oh, yes. Somewhere she was definitely laughing.

How did one do this, anyway? Jab it into a vein? Where? The inside of his left arm he supposed. Those bloodlines were clearly visible, threading just beneath the surface.

Oh, God. Oh, Goddess.

He held the needle above his wrist. Hesitating.

He winced. Practicing, really. It wouldn't hurt. Not much. Not compared to other things he'd been through. It was just the idea that pitched him into such a state. Good grief, teenaged girls and younger got their ears pierced all the time. Diabetics stabbed themselves with these things as a matter of routine. The lot of them miles braver than himself, apparently.

Well, come on, before you're spotted by the nurse.  

Bloody hell. Literally.

He pushed it inexpertly into his skin. Ow. Ouch. It took more force than he'd imagined. Was that far enough? Had he hit the vein? Sweat flared on his body. His hand trembled, and his head went light. This was ridiculous . . .

I am not going to faint.  

 . . . Completely ridiculous . . .

Not.  

Cold all over, then hot. He gulped air and held it.

Not. I really mean it. Not.  

Gradual release of breath. Take another. Deep and even. Let it out. There. Not too horribly bad.

He didn't care to look, but had to in order to reverse the plunger or whatever the thing was. He suspected he'd taken the wrong sort for drawing blood. He thought they used something different on television shows—if they got that right.

But slowly, slowly, the plastic cylinder filled up with a bounty of red fluid. When he'd retracted it as far as it would go, he pulled the thing free and held his wrist to his mouth to sweep away any seepage until the minuscule injury closed.

Should have used my teeth to make the damned hole, he thought sulkily. He'd done that before and with much less mental fuss. But he'd have still felt the same about dipping the needle into any wound. Ugh.

He crushed the bout of squeamishness. Sabra had any number of the damned things stuck in her. Hopefully he could alleviate that necessity.

Again, Richard stood at her bedside, in the same place.

An injection would be the wrong way to go, no telling what his blood would do to her system if introduced so directly. By mouth, as always. That's how it worked.

He parted her lips, pressed the plunger with his thumb, and hoped the tiny stream wouldn't choke her. He put in only a few drops, waited, then a few more, taking his time. Whatever power lay within would work its magic however large or small the amount.

Richard's own change had been brought about by a massive draining on her part, taking from him, and then she'd shared it back again, though his memory was less clear on that part of things. It had been as much for lust and ceremony as anything else. In the times that came afterward she told him even a taste was enough to bring about the dark rebirth. Not as pleasurable, but sufficient.

If it would just work again.

He gently took her cold hand, shut his eyes, and silently prayed.

"Richard?"

He gave a great start at the sound of Bourland's voice. Richard had been so involved with his internal concentration he'd not heard anyone approach.

His friend, standing in the doorway, coat still on, looking diffident about his intrusion. "Hallo. Sorry. How are things?"

That was indeed the question. Richard checked the monitors. "The same, it would seem." Good or bad or too soon to tell?

Bourland came in. He had a modest vase of fresh flowers in hand. Miniature pink roses, expensive at this time of year. He shrugged a little when Richard glanced at them. "Silly of me, but I saw them in the flower shop downstairs and . . . they probably won't allow it here. In case she's allergic. There's no place to put them."

"On the floor by the chair should be fine. Out of the way. She's not allergic to them."

He accepted the suggestion with relief, placing the flowers between the chair and the wall. Their sweet scent began to war with the medicinal air of the room.

"Michael's at home?"

"Yes. I managed to talk him into it. My housekeeper's staying over to keep an eye on him. She's to call me if she notices any problems. There've been no more phase outs, thank God."

Could that mean Michael's episodes had somehow been connected to Sabra? It seemed likely, except that before ever meeting her he'd projected visions. It had been his only way of communicating through his trauma. Perhaps he was simply too distracted now for such activity.

Bourland came around the other side of the bed to look down at Sabra. "She's so impossibly young," he whispered, brushing back a stray tendril of her hair that was outside the bandaging. It was an unexpectedly intimate, tender gesture, and he was likely unaware of how much it revealed about their relationship.

A nurse newly come on shift and clearly unbriefed about the exceptions being made for this patient, appeared at the door. "I'm sorry, but visiting hour is over."

An hour? More like five minutes. Richard fixed her with his gaze and softly recommended she find something else to do, they were allowed to be there. Her face blanked for a second, then she smiled amiably and went away. Bourland noticed, but Richard didn't care.

"I'll be outside," he said, wanting to talk with Bourland, but reluctant to impose on his time with Sabra.

He went to the waiting room near the ICU ward. There was a different governmental type in a plain dark suit hanging about playing watchdog. He didn't seem armed, but Richard got the distinct impression the man might be RCMP. The man nodded to him and went to stand in the hall, looking cordial of all things. Ah—there they were, regulation boots under the suit. Dead giveaway.

Well . . . good. Nice to have a guardian angel standing ready.

Richard stretched out on the padded bench seating along one wall. He'd known harder beds; this one was only worse because of its hospital location. Still, he could get a bit of a nap in.

Only Bourland didn't let him. He came in a few minutes later. "I seem to be making a habit of—no, please, stay as you are. Grab sleep when you can. That's what they tell soldiers, isn't it?"

"So I've heard." Some rules remained ever constant. "What's up?" He continued flat on his back, glad for the change in posture from the chair.

Bourland sat opposite, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "I'll wager you've been beating yourself about the why of the accident as much as I've done. Michael wanted to know why, too, and there's never any answer, so I shifted over to the how of it."

"Go on." This must have been what had kept him so busy earlier.

"I had her car taken to a place I know," he said. "A place full of experts. I got them to fine tooth comb it for anything unusual, and set people to interviewing witnesses to the accident. So far nothing untoward has surfaced. It was just as we saw, she lost control on the ice when a freak wind—"

Richard shook his head. "It's more than that, and you know it."

"Yes," Bourland agreed in a carefully even tone. "We both know it. At this point we're the only ones who do. What I'm seeking is any kind of proof of whatever else was involved that caused it. You saw the brake lights when she passed? She was trying so hard to stop that thing and it just . . ." He shut his eyes a moment. "My God. I even felt the snow . . . Richard, this is so bloody impossible."

"I know it is. Can you get past that?"

"To what? Telepathy? Ghosts? UFOs?"

"To being there for Michael, whatever happens."

"Of course I will." Bourland snorted. "You do know how to go for the throat, don't you?"

"No comment. In the meantime, yes, there is a strangeness going on. Michael's projecting visions, and we all had the same dream. Nightmare."

"But why? How?"

"I was hoping Sabra would be able to explain. You may have noticed her insight to . . . spiritual matters; very unique, very strong. She's always used that to help Michael."

"It's hard not to notice their connection. Sometimes when they're together it's like two people with one mind. But it seems to work. She's a bit eccentric on some things, but I know she loves him, and would never harm him."

This was promising, but it was yet a long way from acceptance on the level that might be required. It would be easier to just hypnotize Bourland, give him a basic download of Otherside facts, and tell him not to panic. Not yet, anyway.

"You said Sabra might explain. But you know things also, don't you?"

No escape. Richard sat up to face him. The bitch of it was that he knew so damned little himself. He could clarify some aspects of the shared nightmare, not much more.

Bourland gave him a long look. "Richard, this isn't the time."

"What?"

"I know the signs. It's clear you're steeling yourself up for something unpleasant and this is just not the time. Anyway, I might be ahead of you for once."

Richard was at sea. Had someone kidnapped the Bourland he knew and replaced him with a mind-reading clone?

"I think we can agree on the fact that there is a paranormal aspect to this business. There, the word's on the floor for all to trip over."

"Philip . . . really now . . ."

Bourland raised a hand. "An important part of maintaining intelligent pragmatism is being able to recognize when one is out of one's depth. When you've eliminated all other possibilities, then whatever remains, however bizarre, is probably worth looking into. I've contacted some different experts to look into things. They've sent a team to look over the crash site, take measurements and such; the car's going to one of their labs for more work—"

"What do you mean by 'different experts'?"

"I know of a group that investigates the paranormal, not with ouija boards but with science. One of their senior men is an old school chum of mine, so I rang him up and asked for an assist. As it happens, they were already prepping to send a team off to the Yucatán to look into some odd reports from there."

Richard came fully awake. "Such as . . . ?"

"Don't know yet, that's why they're sending a team. Whether what's drawn their attention has to do with that shared vision remains to be discovered. They've got people operating in London who are checking out similar reports concerning Stonehenge. Of course, my friend was highly curious about my interest and the car and the rest. I said I'd explain later. If I can't then I'll have to buy him one hell of an excellent bottle of scotch to—Matt?"

Bourland's attention snapped toward the doorway, where stood a very tall, lean, bordering-on-the-gaunt, man wearing a black ski cap and sardonic expression. Next to him was a slim woman with honey-blond hair, her cool eyes set in a resolute, beautifully sculpted face.

The man said, "Should my ears be burning?"

"Almost." Bourland got up and went over to shake hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Frank told us to stop and see you before our flight to fun-in-the-sun Meh-hee-co." His gaze settled on Richard a moment, friendly, but oddly analytic. Piercing without being offensive. Richard got the impression his face had just been filed into a highly efficient memory for later retrieval if required. Behind them stood the watchdog fellow, still looking cordial, but observant. The couple had passed inspection and were allowed to invade.

"Excuse us," Bourland shot to Richard, then smoothly herded them from the room without seeming to do so. A very seamless technique of compartmentalizing everyone, if that was his aim. With his position in the government, it must have been second nature to him. "My God, I thought you'd have been kidnapped by space aliens by this time."

"Well, now that you mention it . . ." The rest of the man's reply was obscured by a hospital page.

Richard assumed the couple were the team sent by whatever agency had involved themselves. Apparently they had begun checking things independently prior to Bourland's involvement, and that was perfectly fine; there was no way in hell that Richard would leave Sabra and go haring off to the Yucatán at this point.

He hoped they'd be safe. The man-thing on the pyramid . . . what he'd done . . . he was likely long gone by now, but on his way where? Off to destroy another ancient sacred site? Which? There were thousands. And toward what purpose? What was to be gained by ravaging such places?

"Mr. Dun?"

God, he'd gone sleepy again. He sluggishly realized he'd stretched out as before, and the charming young woman was bending over him with an apologetic smile. Given any other circumstance the view would be exceedingly welcome. He boosted up, rubbing his face as she introduced herself. He didn't snag the name long enough to hold, only that she was a researcher. Didn't seem the type to be burrowing through library stacks, but she had the polish of a confident professional about her.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Philip said you had a dream or vision?" she prompted. "It might help our investigation if you could tell me what you saw."

He glanced at the card she gave him along with her self-introduction and recognized the emblem next to her name. "Oh, you're that lot."

She must have been accustomed to the response and smiled. "You've heard of us."

"Yes. I catch things on the television now and then about your doings."

"You can't believe everything that goes on the air. They generally regulate us to Halloween shows or an exaggerated and garbled documentary."

What a pleasing voice she had, very soft, almost liquid. "Well, you're not running about in tinfoil hats, which puts you ahead of other groups with which I've dealt, but I prefer to keep my name out of any records if you don't mind."

"Not a problem. On request we assign a pseudonym or a letter designation—if we bother. I'm told that this is an informal and off-the-record sidebar to the official investigation. Consider it a private one-on-one."

He decided he liked her. "Thank you."

"Your dream?" She drew out a small tape recorder said the date and time into it and identified him as "Mr. B." He assumed Bourland would be "Mr. A."

Without embellishment or emotional coloring, he described exactly what he'd seen, and after a moment's consideration gave Sharon Geary's name to her.

"This was definitely someone you know?"

"Yes. We were very close once. If you can shed any light on what happened—on where she might be, I would very much like to be informed. Immediately."

"Then you believe you saw and perhaps interacted with an event that actually took place, as it took place."

"I know it did. Just not in this Reality."

She did not inquire what he meant by that, and his respect for her group rose a bit more. "Shared dreams are not unheard of, but the ones I've investigated were not quite so detailed as yours. They more commonly occur between close family members like twins or a parent and child. You and Philip aren't related, are you?"

"I'd say we're brothers under the skin," he said without thinking.

"Well, there is something of a physical resemblance."

"Nonsense."

"Has anyone else had this same experience?"

"My"—he almost said "godson" and changed at the last second— "Our friend in there, in the ICU. She was on her way in to talk with us this morning about it when she had her accident."

"I'm sorry."

"She called me last night, rather early this morning. She'd had an identical vision that woke her. We all saw each other in it, along with many other people we didn't know. It had us rather upset."

"And you couldn't identify the man in it?"

He shook his head. "I wish I could. I saw only his outline in light. The rest was darkness. Sharon was . . . glowing brightly. Very symbolic, I'm sure."

"Philip has suggested that there might have been a paranormal factor to the car crash."

"I would take that seriously, yes."

"We have people checking it out."

"So I've gathered. One thing . . ."

Perfect eyebrows raised with inquiry. "Yes?"

"Please do be very careful while down there, use extreme caution. I did not see the man—or whatever he was—clearly, but my every instinct tells me he's extraordinarily dangerous. If the vision was pure imagination combined with coincidence, then you've nothing to fear. But if not . . ."

"I understand, Mr. Dun."

He put her card in his wallet and passed over one of his own. "If you find out anything about Sharon please don't hesitate to call my cell at any hour no matter how late or early. Consider it urgent. I must know what—what's become of her." He pressed the point home with a firm hypnotic nudge. She blinked and swayed as though he'd done it physically.

"Of course." Her eyes cleared, she favored him with a kind smile, shook his hand, and left.

Oh, God. Sharon.

He rubbed his face again and suppressed a groan. How long since she'd been taken away? He stared at his watch. Over twenty hours. If she was lost in the Otherside she wouldn't have lasted ten minutes with the creatures there. But that snake . . . or god, as Sabra had called it. The young woman had suggested it might be Kukulcan. That couldn't be good. The ancient natives had done blood sacrifice to him. Richard could still call back from memory the smell of it soaked deep into the stones of the pyramid. So much death . . .

He put an arm over his eyes and tried to will himself unconscious but the dreadful thoughts and worries kept coming like legions.

Sharon Geary drifted in darkness, struggling mightily against mind-numbing, heart-stopping terror and mostly succeeding. Wild animals were like that when trapped in a cage. After a few moments of blind panic and beating against the bars they go very still, either conserving effort or fallen into shock. If they didn't get past the shock they died.

She told herself she was conserving effort.

But where . . . ? The last thing she remembered before the dark sealed around her was Richard. He'd just stood there not doing a bloody thing. Then again, what could he be expected to do? Fly up and attack the serpent with his bare hands? That was a bit much to ask, though Rivers had had no trouble doing the latter, it seemed. By God, if she ever got her own hands around his throat . . .

Oh, yes, anger was a great way to keep the fear down to manageable levels.

Where the hell was she?

She felt along one leg of her BDU pants and the cargo pocket there. Her torch was still inside. Brilliant. Pun intended. She pulled it out, holding it away from her, and switched it on.

Not what she expected, though she could never have said what that might have been.

Hand-sized scales, glittering like jewels set in polished steel, completely surrounded her. It was like she was inside a gigantic ball some dozen feet across made from . . .

Mother of God, the sna—serpent—bloody big monster. It was wrapped all around her. A living cage made from its enormous body.

Bad enough, but she was floating in it.

She'd seen films of astronauts training. They achieved a state similar to the microgravity of orbit by going up in a plane and waiting for it to go into a dive, then they seemed to float about the compartment. It looked like great fun until you remembered it lasted only a few moments, then the plane had to come out of its controlled dive and climb again.

Sharon knew she'd been here for much longer than that. Where was "here"? And were they falling? Falling a long, long way?

Think, girl. She wasn't in outer space. What other options were available where gravity was scarce?

Otherside? That didn't seem right. She'd been halfway in it when Rivers threw her from the—by God I'm going kill that bastard!—pyramid. Then the serpent, Kukulcan, had reached her, wrapped around her . . . and it felt like something had seized them both. What could be out there big enough to pull this size of creature off course?

There's always a bigger fish, it seemed, wherever you found yourself.

Cheering thought. Sort of.

Relatively calmer, she drifted close to one of the living walls. Each round of its body was as large across as the biggest oak tree she'd ever seen, and she'd seen some that—my God, it's breathing. Very slow, but constant, she watched in awe the massive expanding and contracting of her prison.

How about that? They had air.

For some reason, she'd not been too very certain about it. She could—rotten thought—be dead, after all. It wasn't likely. She had firm ideas about the afterlife and this wasn't even close.

She studied the structure, such as it was, and made a rough guess on just how large her reptile friend might be to create this size of a hollow space around her with its body.

Oh, yeah. Big. Really, really big.  

Relative to its length and girth, this substantial space was rather small. The thing must be wrapped around her in a very tight, tight knot and likely had yards and yards of itself left over fore and aft.

What, if anything, would happen if she touched it? Would the serpent even notice her? And react? Adversely?

One way to find out.

She touched the scales. Lightly. It'd be just her bad luck if the god was ticklish and crushed her by accident, but nothing happened.

She ran her hand along the curve of flesh, registering the texture, smooth one way, rough in the other as she'd observed on some types of lizards. So the head would be wound in that direction, likely on the outside of the ball it had made of itself. What a relief not to be able to see it. Size factors, scary features, and big teeth aside, she had a gut feeling that it was just not the done thing to look a god in the eye unless one was invited. This god wasn't of a religion she was particularly familiar with, but that didn't matter. It was a respect thing.

"Hallo? Anyone out there?"

Why in hell had she said anything? Well, there were no "keep silent" signs up. Might as well have been. The walls threw her voice back, flat, as though no one wanted to hear her little troubles.

Sod that.

"Hallo? I'm up now. Want to tell me what's going on?"

Uh-oh, that's torn it. She saw and felt a vast shifting all around. Her cage was on the move all right, thankfully not inward. That was good. Don't crush your redheaded date, all right?

Two rounded sections parted lengthwise in a body-long curve. She steadied herself against the opposite wall and shone her torch into the dark opening. It was a good foot wide. Enough for her to squeeze through, but instinct told her that might be a bad idea. Air swept in, indication of wind activity. Until now she'd been unaware of the stuffiness of her confines. It smelled strongly—no surprise there—of snake. They did have a distinctive scent. She knew a man who could smell them. He didn't like them much, either, which might have had to do with his sensitivity to the odor. This place would have given him a heart attack.

Her light caught on a black yet glittering surface. Large. Everything here was large except herself.

Sharon gulped. It was an eye. Kukulcan was looking at her.

Bloody hell, what was the polite thing to do for that? In just about every mythology and religion she'd read up on it was usually a bad moment for the mere mortal who caught the attention of a god.

"Hallo. I'm Sharon."

It didn't blink or move, just kept staring. Snakes didn't have eyelids, did they? Some kind of inner membrane or the like. It threw mammals off-kilter concerning their body language, which they didn't care for, probably why people made such an issue about killing snakes. Even a lion chasing you down on the veldt for its supper can blink. You could understand that, guess what was on its hungry little mind by the smallest facial signals.

No such signals of similarity here. The mind here was as alien as it could get and still be on earth.

Maybe not on earth. Not the world or Reality she knew.

"See here, things were pretty bad back there, an' I'm thinking that you helped me. If that's so, then I thank you."

Holy Mother, what was she doing, chatting up a god?

On the other hand, her gran always said good manners cost nothing and were usually appreciated.

"I'm very glad you came along. But you're probably a bit busy . . . so if the storm's over could you drop me off where I belong? I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. Any old place will do for me."

The eye withdrew out of range of her light.

After a few moments' wait, she grew curious enough to push over to investigate. It was amazing how quickly she'd gotten used to floating like this, almost like swimming, but you didn't have to worry about drowning.

Or not . . . there's different ways of going without air. She hoped her hollow wasn't completely air tight. Otherwise she'd have to depend on the big fellow outside to remember to let in fresh air when she needed it. Like now.

Peering through the long opening, she played the torch beam around. It ran out of light before the ambient area ran out of darkness. She squirmed partially over the bulk of one coil, trusting the creature would hold itself steady and not squeeze her in two. There, torso out, arse in, like hanging from a Dutch door. Up, down, in, out with the beam. No end to the dark, no structures, no ground, this must be what they mean by infinite . . . wait—a glimmer of something there, far, far above. It was big, ocean big, filled all that part of the sky. If that was sky.

If that was ocean. Maybe, but it was either way over her head, or she was suspended upside down, which did not mean very much here. So if there was no gravity, how was it the water stayed in place? How was it they stayed in place?

"This is very interesting, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing. You trying to tell me there's no landing pads about?"

Sharon sensed rather than saw the great head looming next to her. Hesitantly, she spared it a sideways glance. Yes, very big. Might have even grown some since the brawl with Rivers. She could stand upright in its yawning mouth, stretch high, and still not touch the top of it.

Oh, what a remarkably bad mental picture to conjure up.

For all that, she was almost getting used to its presence. Make that Presence. She'd met a few film stars who had it going for them. Theirs was nothing compared to this fellow's impact. No wonder he had the ancient natives building bloody great temples to him in the heat and humidity.

Bloody. All those poor bastards with their hearts cut out jolly with a knife. Another bad mental picture. She had to stop doing that.

Something flashed past the torch beam, positively rocketing by, with an aggressive organic hum. It provoked a reaction from Kukulcan, who swung his heavy head in that direction, the jaws going wide.

She played the beam all over, trying to see what it was, then it occurred to her, as a seeming earthquake—snakequake?—shuddered through the god's body, that she would be safer inside than out. Hastily, she wriggled back, retreating as best she could. Hard to find purchase, and it was too easy to catch a scrape if she rubbed the wrong way against the scales.

There, ouch, nothing too painful—

Then something slammed noisily against the serpent, and her hollow ball chamber lurched in reaction. She got the barest, fastest glimpse of wings, massive sectional body, claws, eye clusters, and insectoid mandibles. Her mind translated it as a cross between a spider and wasp, bigger than an elephant, which was the only reason it hadn't achieved an entry. The mouth part extended outward, snapping, a long thin tongue shot clear, whipping rapidly all over, seeking. It flicked past her arm and a stray drop of clear fluid flew off, landing on the back of her wrist. Sticky, it was sticky as—God, if that thing touched her and got a good grip . . . no place to hide, no cover, no weapons . . .

She hadn't the breath to summon a scream, and by the time she did, the being vanished. Not as in going invisible, but as in being yanked suddenly away.

Outside there was considerable violent movement and commotion along with a nasty hissing sound like a very large tire venting an air leak. Heart beating fit to burst, she went low toward the opening, aiming her light with a shaking hand.

She definitely had the catbird seat for the battle, such as it was. Kukulcan had the—well, call it a bug for want of anything better—headfirst in his mouth. The evolution-gone-right-out-the-window thing was making a mighty struggle: clawing, hissing, and probably biting, but the serpent's inwardly curved fangs prevented it from escape. The only way out was through, which was via a gigantic digestive tract.

It was strangely fascinating, like watching a train wreck. Come to think of it, the sizes were on the same scale.

Down the bug went, flailing all the way. One of its wings snapped off and floated into the darkness, spinning slowly, streaming black fluid. Very educational, in fact, that was much more information than she ever wanted to know about the workings of its anatomy.

Kukulcan finished the last of it, and she followed the progress of the elephant-sized bulge as it advanced past the feathered crest on its trip down the long gullet.

After-dinner mint, anyone?

She hoped that wouldn't be herself.

The serpent god stared long at her, then the head swung away toward the seeming water above. She followed its gaze.

"Ah—I get you now," she whispered. "I'll just wait inside out of the way, all right? Thanks for the peek. Look after yourself."

She slid quickly in and the long opening sealed tight shut again, enclosing her. She was ready to kiss the scales in gratitude and relief. Good thing she was floating because her knees would have buckled. Was it possible to faint in zero-gravity? She might be the first to find out.

The "water" above them, all that movement, large as an ocean, was composed of a swarm of those overgrown bugs. One of them must have noticed her light and come diving in to investigate. Lucky her, bad luck for it.

Time to sit tight and try to work up some way out for them both, because Sharon didn't think even Kukulcan could eat that many of them in a sitting.

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Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Six

Toronto, the Present

Several witnesses to the southbound accident on Highway 400 used their cell phones, reporting it almost in the same moment it happened. People stopped to help, emergency vehicles arrived, evaluations were made, and Sabra was transported by care flight to St. Michael's hospital downtown. By the time Richard arrived with Bourland and Michael she'd been whisked off to emergency surgery.

The nurses and the EMTs could not provide Richard much in the way of detail and nothing at all about Sabra's prognosis, only that she was concussed, with broken bones and possible internal injuries; it would be up to the doctor to give him full information. They did express amazement that she was still alive, so that was a good sign, where there's life there's hope and all that. Apparently her car had been thoroughly mangled. One of those who'd pulled her free called her survival a miracle.

Richard attributed this to the protection of Sabra's Goddess, but why not have spared her priestess from injury in the first place? He couldn't understand. Was the instigator—and Richard had no doubt the man he'd seen on the pyramid was responsible—that powerful?

Perhaps so.

Then why was Sabra a target? Because she'd been in the vision? Richard had been present as well, right in front, picked out for special attention from the great snake until it was drawn away toward Sharon. Surely that had been noticed by the shadowy figure who had thrown her from the top.

Of course, Sabra might have looked to be the stronger threat to the Otherside man. The rules were different there. Richard's unique strengths might count for nothing compared to her Gifts.

I must know more.  

Sabra was his only source for an explanation, and she'd been—not cut down—made neutral. He winced at the euphemism. It was a cowardly retreat from reality. But he used it all the same. He wasn't ready for reality, not that kind. He never would be. She had to survive. Recover. Return.

Anything else . . .

He teetered on the edge of falling into a black, black pit, and willed himself away from it.

Focus on what's at hand. On what you can do. 

All right. Sabra perhaps wasn't the only source for help, if Richard wanted to include Michael, which he certainly would not. The boy was frightened and confused enough, he didn't need to be dealing with questions about his visions. He was yet in shock about the accident. White-faced with his lips firmly shut, he couldn't help but be remembering his mother and sisters' deaths.

Thank God Bourland seemed aware of that and kept himself close, talking to him. They sat side by side on a waiting room bench, Bourland still in his day-off clothes, including the now inappropriate slippers. Michael had hastily pulled on jeans and track shoes with no socks for the drive to the hospital. They could thank Bourland for knowing which one; he'd managed to trace Sabra's destination. Even as he comforted Michael, he made phone calls. Before long a sober-faced man with the look of a bureaucrat turned up in the waiting room. He held a brief whispered conference with Bourland, then proceeded to run interference between them and anyone approaching with a clipboard and papers to sign. When one of the hospital officials questioned his authority, he flashed some sort of identification that made the potential difficulty magically vanish.

His shielding efforts left them free to wait and worry and hope.

Richard, though, was frozen to all feelings except that of absolute helplessness. The woman he loved more than life could be dying only yards away.

It was impossible.

Unthinkable.

If they would just tell him something.

More than anything he feared the approach of a very sympathetic sad-faced doctor come to break the news that the worst had happened.

My blood can spare her from death.  

Maybe. His heart raced at the prospect. He wanted it to be so.

The only thing that prevented him from bursting into the operating room was a conversation he'd had with Sabra on that very subject. He'd not thought it fair that she was fully human again. It put her desperately at risk and sooner or later she would die. For all her joy at being able to walk freely in the day again, it seemed an uneven trade. What were a few decades in the sun compared to centuries more of life?

But Sabra said the magic wouldn't work twice. "We can exchange blood as we did before, and though there would be mutual pleasure in the act, it won't change me."

"Why not?" he wanted to know.

She shrugged. "It could be magic or biochemistry or something to do with immunity factors. I'm not a scientist. Suffice that the Goddess's gift was given once and once only. She's passed this other gift to me to use, and that is how it must be."

He knew better than to voice his opinion that the so-called advantages of being human were hardly comparable.

Sabra must have read his heart, but did not rebuke him for it. "That chapter of my life is past," she said with cheerful conviction. "This is how I can best serve her purpose, and it's ever been well for us, has it not? I must go forward, never back, forward to wherever I'm supposed to be and do."

But she couldn't have anticipated this.

And seemingly, neither had the Goddess.

Another impossibility.

The man-thing on that pile of stones, a shadow shape, outlined in sickly green light . . . Sabra said he'd had protections. Had they concealed him that well? Even from a deity?

"Richard." Bourland's voice.

He snapped back to the drab waiting room, coming instantly alert. As if in fulfillment of his fear a tired-looking doctor was at the door talking to Bourland's watchdog, who let the man pass.

The news wasn't good, but neither was it the worst.

He also spoke of internal injuries, crushed limbs, concussion, the car's airbags had done only so much. Richard couldn't take in the technical details or terms; his mind could only cope with the basics. She was out of surgery, still in critical condition, but stabilized. He liked that word, so far as it went.

The doctor added that she was better off than they'd expected, given the damage. She'd survived this long, now they had to wait and see.

"But there's nothing any of you can do here. She's unconscious and there's no telling when she'll wake up. If there's a change of any kind, the nurse will call you."

Richard let Bourland ask all the questions, but the answers were never any different. She was alive, barely, and had a small chance. That she'd gotten this far was a good sign, but wait and see, wait and see . . .

When it came down to it, medicine used the same language as faith and magic.

"I want to see her," said Richard. His voice sounded strange. He was prepared to be refused, but the doctor nodded and passed them off to a nurse, who guided them to the intensive care unit.

They were only allowed to look through the glass inset of a door. The ward beyond was festooned with functional-looking medical equipment and several beds. Three had occupants. With the obstruction of the in-place paraphernalia it took him a moment to sort Sabra from the others. That wasn't right. He should have spotted her instantly. He could always sense where she was when nearby.

"Is she dying?" asked Michael.

"No," Bourland and Richard chorused together.

Richard's tone was denial; Bourland's was reassurance.

Richard could pick out the sting of disinfectant they'd used on her from here. And the scent of her blood. It was so faint, all but overwhelmed by necessary intrusions of her meds. There was a mask on her face, probably for oxygen, needles taped to the back of her hands and tubes attached to the needles snaked up to bags on pole stands. Her head and shoulders were immobilized, and leads to monitors were connected to her pale, pale skin. A nurse was checking something or other, the routine of her movements encouraging. So long as she continued calm with no undue worry . . . yes, that was good.

Bourland kept his hands on Michael's shoulders as they stared with him through the glass barrier. "I know it's very frightening, but all the things they have in there are to help her get better. Her body's been through a bad shock, and it will be a while before she can talk to us again. Remember when you slipped during hockey practice and landed so hard on your back?"

"I couldn't breathe."

"Knocked the breath right out of you. That's pretty much what's happened to Sabra."

"Only worse."

"Yes," he admitted. "But you were able to get up after a bit. Give her some time and she'll come around, too."

Is that for me as well as Michael? This man, who was but a fraction of Richard's age and experience, was working to reassure them all. And to some degree succeeding.

"How long?" asked Michael.

"I don't know, but they'll tell us." Bourland pulled out a business card and gave it to the nurse. "My private cell number, for any change. Richard."

With much effort he dragged his gaze from the small sheeted figure on the stainless-steel bed. Only sheets? Wouldn't she be cold? "W-what?"

"Michael and I are going home—"

"But I don't want to, Dad."

"It's just for a little bit, then we'll come back."

"I can stay here with Uncle Richard."

"No doubt, but we're ill prepared for a long wait, and I rather think that's what this might be. Richard will hold the fort. You and I have things to do, then we'll relieve him."

A spark of rebellion crossed Michael's face, but he nodded. "We'll come right back?"

"Yes. I want to be here for her, too."

Richard felt selfishly glad it was Bourland's chosen lot to look after Michael. He would not have been able to do so, not with that level of confidence. He shot Bourland a look and was shaken by a flash of intense agony in his friend's eyes that had somehow not affected his calm, in-charge tone of voice. How was he able to hide that from the boy?

"You'll be all right?" Bourland asked.

Richard knew his reply had damned well better be a yes. He managed a nod and fished out his keys. "Use the Rover. I'll phone you every thirty minutes until you're back."

"Well, in that case, I'll want an assistant to take on the extra load." Bourland gave his cell to Michael. "That's your job."

"For real?" He clutched the phone. He had his own, of course, regulated to his backpack and used primarily for keeping track of his after-school whereabouts, but this was a step up from it. His father routinely got calls from people like the prime minister.

"Don't go all heady from the power. Come on, then. Let's see if Richard's in a no-parking area."

"Will you fix the ticket if he is?"

"Certainly not. Do him some good to go to court." He herded the distracted Michael toward the hall and elevators. The watchdog reappeared there, listened to Bourland, then moved purposely off, apparently with an errand to do.

Richard continued to look through the glass until a nurse—he wasn't sure if she was the same one—got his attention and suggested he might be more comfortable in the nearby waiting room. An impossibility, but he was blocking traffic, so he retreated to a dull chamber with muted lighting and old magazines. There were Bibles on a table in French and English and a bin loaded with bright plastic toys. Thankfully there was no television. He'd have smashed it.

After two minutes of silence broken by people whisking back and forth in the hall, their rubber soles squeaking on the polished floor, he quit his corner chair and went to the ICU entry to peer again.

Nothing had changed since his last look. That was good. If she was quiet, she was healing.

He couldn't bring himself to return to the waiting room and paced down the long hall, past the nurse's station to the end. Bright lights, mysterious voices paging names over the loudspeakers, the smell of illness overlaid with the scent of cut flowers, centrally heated desert-dry air—how on earth could people work here? This was hell to him.

He pushed through the exit doors and took the stairs on the other side, not clear about reaching any particular place, just needing to keep on the move. Eventually he emerged, wandered, oriented, and either by chance or guided by an invisible influence found himself in the hospital's chapel. From the activity by the altar they were holding mass.

Richard stood at the back, listening without really hearing. This was a matter of feelings, not words. The atmosphere, whether here or places like Chartres or under the open sky, was always the same for him. The smell of candle wax and incense were instantly comforting, inducing a strange hush within him, reviving a frequently dormant, but ever-present connection to something larger than himself.

He slipped quietly into one of the pews, bowed his head, and sought to find what he needed in that vastness.

Bourland's man proved himself uncommonly useful and inconspicuously, if not supernaturally, efficient. When Richard returned to the ICU area, he found that Sabra had been moved to a special glass-windowed room at the far end. This alarmed him until the man explained that it was Bourland's doing. Strings had been pulled. Because of this change Richard would be allowed to sit with her so long as he was quiet and kept out of the way of the staff.

He could do that. Anything to be closer. He humbly thanked the man and went in.

She looked so small and frail. Where was the strength that made her seem so much greater than the limits of her form?

Very carefully, as though it might add to her injuries if he moved too fast, he gently took one of her hands. Her fingers were so cold and inert he had to look to make sure he was holding them.

He bent low, lips to her ear, murmuring just loud enough to be heard over the beep of the monitors. "I'm here, Sabra. You were in an accident, but everything's going to be all right. You rest and get better and I'll watch over you."

He waited, but there was no sign that she'd heard, no flutter of eyelids or movement from her hand, no variation of her heartbeat. Well, he'd not really expected . . . but it would have been encouraging if . . .

I'll be right here. I promise, he repeated. Since it was a thought, he could speak in his mind as loud as he liked. He practically bellowed it.

Still no reaction. But he felt an odd certainty that he'd been heard. He kissed her cold fingers, backed away, and sat in the room's only chair which was against the far wall a few feet from the foot of the bed. He watched her steadily, unblinking for a few moments, then pulled out his cell to make his first call to Bourland.

Bourland and Michael returned as promised. They'd kitted themselves out with proper clothes and seemed prepared to settle in for the duration. Michael insisted on sitting with Sabra, promising to be very quiet and still. Children were not supposed to be in the ICU, but there was no way they could deny him. Richard spoke with someone in charge and an exception was made.

"Any more phase outs?" he asked as he and Bourland retired to the outer waiting room.

"No, thank God."

"Did he say anything about the last one?"

"Hardly says anything at all. He was remarkably cooperative, though, about getting ready to return here. I'd say he's worried, but not in such a way as we need worry about him. It's like he's getting down to business, where other children might panic and go weepy."

"Startled?"

Bourland shook his head. "He's strong. Let's hope he won't have to draw on that strength. How are you?"

"Bloody awful, but it's easier to be able to sit near her. Thanks for that."

"If not me, then you'd have done it. This is how I deal with frustration." He had a laptop case with him and a phone, evidence that he would continue his work.

Several hours of turn-on-turn with no worsening of Sabra's condition seemed to bolster Michael's shaken confidence. Richard watched over him at a distance, on guard for problems, but the boy was the picture of self-possession, showing a depth of maturity that should have been beyond his years. On the other hand he'd been in various stages of therapy since the catastrophe with his family, so he must have had a wealth of psychological tools to help him contend with this crisis.

Bourland continued to deal with it via his mysterious labors. He took and made phone calls, and employed his assistant to make more. Richard got the impression that many things were being caused to happen elsewhere and on several levels, but checked his curiosity. When Bourland was ready to talk, he'd convey in detail what was going on.

Richard's own internal defenses were the result of considerable experience. He'd been in such situations before; he knew how to wait and the futility of fretting. But this was Sabra's life, which made the ordeal rawly new to him. When it came down to it, he was wholly terrified.

Not a damned thing he could do about it either.

He'd put his cell alarm on quiet mode. The silent jolt when it buzzed shouldn't have been a surprise, but it did make him twitch.

It was his Scotland Yard friend, with nothing too enlightening to report. He'd put the fear of God into the woman at Lloyd's, who again confirmed (more politely and with more details) what'd she'd said earlier about Sharon Geary. He then traced Sharon's movements as far as Heathrow. Her car was in one of their long-term lots, and she'd taken a flight to the Yucatán, buying the ticket direct from the airline's counter. Apparently her decision to take a trip had been a sudden and last-minute thing. Like other world travelers she carried her passport as a matter of course.

At a question from Richard, the man replied, "No, we found nothing unusual at either Stonehenge or Woodhenge . . . well, a few of those potty New Age types were upset about something or other at Stone. Said the place was ruined, but our man there couldn't make any sense of what had them so stirred up. One of the women was in moaning hysterics, had to be taken away by her friends. They told him the place had been bombed. He conducted a thorough look 'round with the staff, but they didn't spot any damage or ticking packages, that sort of thing."

Richard would have given a lot to have interviewed the New Agers. Obviously someone gifted with Sight had seen whatever had happened on Otherside. "What about the staff? Did they see or hear anything odd in the last few days?"

"Nothing like that. A few tourists fainted there today, I'm told, which certainly is not part of the normal run. They complained of headaches and keeled right over. The staff's in a dither worrying about lawsuits, but everyone recovered and went on their way. Put the blame on everything from jet lag to low blood sugar. There's one man who said the 'feel' of the place was off, but that's the limit. What's this about? Should we expect another rash of crop circles?"

"I think not."

"Good, because the farmers here are getting rather fed up about people sneaking into their fields and trampling over everything in the dead of night in the name of art. I know of one fellow threatening to electrify his fences if he could afford the rates."

"That won't keep out aliens."

"He's not worried about them, just losing his harvest to thrill seekers and tourists. I've told him to charge a fee every time one of them raises a camera."

Richard thanked his friend sincerely and rang off, wishing he had that frustrated farmer's problems instead of his own.

Around six o'clock Bourland persuaded Michael that it would be all right to go home for dinner, which would be better than the hospital food they'd snacked on throughout the day. Regardless of that and the situation, Michael had packed away an amazing amount of it. Richard was invited, but said he'd stay on. It was lonely after they left, but he was used to it.

He eased into the chair, his arms stiffly resting exactly along the line of its arms, hands bunched into fists until he forced them to hang loose. He watched the monitors, and speculated long and hard about attempting a blood exchange. It was impossible for Sabra to partake directly from him, but he could easily accomplish what was necessary with a syringe. God knows this place had enough of them lying about; he'd already nicked a couple without getting caught. But would it do more harm than good?

Or would it, as she said, make no matter at all?

He rather thought it would not, but perhaps . . . just to be sure, it mightn't hurt to at least try. Then he would know that he'd done everything within his power for her.

He was forced to wait. This was a 24/7 place, though he'd already picked up on the general rhythms around him. Sooner or later there would come an interval where he could make his move. To prepare for that he got the staff used to seeing him getting up and standing by her bedside, his head bowed, his back to the glass partition. No one looked twice that he could determine. In this facility they were accustomed to people openly praying, and there was a kind of selective blindness in effect that allowed privacy for spiritual matters. He would naturally take advantage of it and had only to bide his time for his best opportunity.

If Sabra had the time, if she remained stable. Should that change, then all cautions were off.

Sitting so still in the chair, Richard out of the blue fell asleep, snapped awake, was bewildered for a tenth of a second, relaxed as he recognized where he was, then tensed again. His neck and shoulders ached from being held in place. How long had he been out? It seemed only a moment.

His single clue that whole hours had fled and late afternoon had come was what his watch told him, and then he wasn't sure that it might be lying. There was no day or night in this part of the hospital; his body clock had its own unique process for marking time and for now was not to be trusted.

He checked the monitors. No change in the displays. They beeped on solemnly but held steady. So long as they continued smooth, all was—almost—well. To keep from jumping up every few minutes he'd earlier asked the nurse on duty a few quiet questions, and she gave him a briefing on how to read them, what was normal, what was not. He was a long way from her expertise, but the additional knowledge made him feel like he had a tiny measure of control over the situation, that perhaps he was more useful than before. He very much needed that.

The nurse came in, on schedule, checked Sabra's blood pressure and other stats, made notations on a clipboard, and asked Richard if he needed anything. He said not.

"You don't have to be here, you know," she said. "It's very exhausting to sit and do nothing."

"I'll be fine."

Apparently she'd seen the syndrome in many others and knew better than to disagree. She nodded sympathetically and left.

He had thirty minutes at least. She was busy with one of the other patients, and would next go to her desk station.

He rose to put his back to the window as he'd been doing throughout the day, effectively blocking all view of his actions. Not making untoward moves or looking in any way different, he drew the hypo from his pocket and quietly peeled off the plastic wrapping, removing the protective casing from the sharp end.

Having watched the nurse draw off samples from Sabra, he knew which catheter implanted in her arm to use to do the same. It had been a bit of a struggle to stand and coldly observe, but he got through it and now repeated those same steps.

Damned if it didn't work.

Hopefully Sabra wouldn't suffer from the minute loss.

Returning to the chair, he sat as before, throwing a casual look toward the next room. Business as usual. No one taking the least notice of him.

He inspected the hypo reservoir to see if there was a top he could pull off. No, the unit was sealed. Breaking it open would make a mess. Have to do it this way, then.

Gingerly resting the needle between his lips almost like a cigarette, his tongue tucked well back out of danger, he tried the plunger. The sudden stream of her blood, still warm, startled him. He swallowed.

The taste . . . chemicals . . . lots of those. Unidentifiable drugs, maybe antibiotics. Nothing that would affect him, but they were unsettling. He tried to discern some suggestion of her emotions, but it was as sterile as the out-of-date stuff he kept in his refrigerator. That was it, then, she was completely unconscious. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

He waited, watching the monitors, listening to the sounds of the ward, and feeling—or imagining that he felt—Sabra's blood working through his system. So small an amount would have no physical effect on him, it was strictly in his head. His mind alone supplied an image of its journey as it flowed to his belly, was absorbed, and eventually dispersed through his body. It needed time to mingle with his own unique blood.

The nurse came again, made her notations, and departed.

He'd been successful at not thinking about what came next. No putting it off now. He freed the second syringe from its plastic, took off the cap. My, but that end of it looked to be very shiny and sharp.

Grimace.

Richard hated, really, really hated the things. It was utterly absurd. He'd withstood sword gashes, arrow wounds, crossbow bolts, spears, bullets, bombs—name most of the weapons used in the last fifteen centuries and he'd likely been a target ten times over for all of them, but for some reason an inch-long hollow needle little thicker than thin wire absolutely put him in knots.

He could almost hear Sabra giggling at him.

Hypodermic, meaning "below skin"—derived from the Greek—syringe, descended from what they now called Middle Latin . . .

Stop stalling, old lad. Just get on with it.  

Oh, yes. Somewhere she was definitely laughing.

How did one do this, anyway? Jab it into a vein? Where? The inside of his left arm he supposed. Those bloodlines were clearly visible, threading just beneath the surface.

Oh, God. Oh, Goddess.

He held the needle above his wrist. Hesitating.

He winced. Practicing, really. It wouldn't hurt. Not much. Not compared to other things he'd been through. It was just the idea that pitched him into such a state. Good grief, teenaged girls and younger got their ears pierced all the time. Diabetics stabbed themselves with these things as a matter of routine. The lot of them miles braver than himself, apparently.

Well, come on, before you're spotted by the nurse.  

Bloody hell. Literally.

He pushed it inexpertly into his skin. Ow. Ouch. It took more force than he'd imagined. Was that far enough? Had he hit the vein? Sweat flared on his body. His hand trembled, and his head went light. This was ridiculous . . .

I am not going to faint.  

 . . . Completely ridiculous . . .

Not.  

Cold all over, then hot. He gulped air and held it.

Not. I really mean it. Not.  

Gradual release of breath. Take another. Deep and even. Let it out. There. Not too horribly bad.

He didn't care to look, but had to in order to reverse the plunger or whatever the thing was. He suspected he'd taken the wrong sort for drawing blood. He thought they used something different on television shows—if they got that right.

But slowly, slowly, the plastic cylinder filled up with a bounty of red fluid. When he'd retracted it as far as it would go, he pulled the thing free and held his wrist to his mouth to sweep away any seepage until the minuscule injury closed.

Should have used my teeth to make the damned hole, he thought sulkily. He'd done that before and with much less mental fuss. But he'd have still felt the same about dipping the needle into any wound. Ugh.

He crushed the bout of squeamishness. Sabra had any number of the damned things stuck in her. Hopefully he could alleviate that necessity.

Again, Richard stood at her bedside, in the same place.

An injection would be the wrong way to go, no telling what his blood would do to her system if introduced so directly. By mouth, as always. That's how it worked.

He parted her lips, pressed the plunger with his thumb, and hoped the tiny stream wouldn't choke her. He put in only a few drops, waited, then a few more, taking his time. Whatever power lay within would work its magic however large or small the amount.

Richard's own change had been brought about by a massive draining on her part, taking from him, and then she'd shared it back again, though his memory was less clear on that part of things. It had been as much for lust and ceremony as anything else. In the times that came afterward she told him even a taste was enough to bring about the dark rebirth. Not as pleasurable, but sufficient.

If it would just work again.

He gently took her cold hand, shut his eyes, and silently prayed.

"Richard?"

He gave a great start at the sound of Bourland's voice. Richard had been so involved with his internal concentration he'd not heard anyone approach.

His friend, standing in the doorway, coat still on, looking diffident about his intrusion. "Hallo. Sorry. How are things?"

That was indeed the question. Richard checked the monitors. "The same, it would seem." Good or bad or too soon to tell?

Bourland came in. He had a modest vase of fresh flowers in hand. Miniature pink roses, expensive at this time of year. He shrugged a little when Richard glanced at them. "Silly of me, but I saw them in the flower shop downstairs and . . . they probably won't allow it here. In case she's allergic. There's no place to put them."

"On the floor by the chair should be fine. Out of the way. She's not allergic to them."

He accepted the suggestion with relief, placing the flowers between the chair and the wall. Their sweet scent began to war with the medicinal air of the room.

"Michael's at home?"

"Yes. I managed to talk him into it. My housekeeper's staying over to keep an eye on him. She's to call me if she notices any problems. There've been no more phase outs, thank God."

Could that mean Michael's episodes had somehow been connected to Sabra? It seemed likely, except that before ever meeting her he'd projected visions. It had been his only way of communicating through his trauma. Perhaps he was simply too distracted now for such activity.

Bourland came around the other side of the bed to look down at Sabra. "She's so impossibly young," he whispered, brushing back a stray tendril of her hair that was outside the bandaging. It was an unexpectedly intimate, tender gesture, and he was likely unaware of how much it revealed about their relationship.

A nurse newly come on shift and clearly unbriefed about the exceptions being made for this patient, appeared at the door. "I'm sorry, but visiting hour is over."

An hour? More like five minutes. Richard fixed her with his gaze and softly recommended she find something else to do, they were allowed to be there. Her face blanked for a second, then she smiled amiably and went away. Bourland noticed, but Richard didn't care.

"I'll be outside," he said, wanting to talk with Bourland, but reluctant to impose on his time with Sabra.

He went to the waiting room near the ICU ward. There was a different governmental type in a plain dark suit hanging about playing watchdog. He didn't seem armed, but Richard got the distinct impression the man might be RCMP. The man nodded to him and went to stand in the hall, looking cordial of all things. Ah—there they were, regulation boots under the suit. Dead giveaway.

Well . . . good. Nice to have a guardian angel standing ready.

Richard stretched out on the padded bench seating along one wall. He'd known harder beds; this one was only worse because of its hospital location. Still, he could get a bit of a nap in.

Only Bourland didn't let him. He came in a few minutes later. "I seem to be making a habit of—no, please, stay as you are. Grab sleep when you can. That's what they tell soldiers, isn't it?"

"So I've heard." Some rules remained ever constant. "What's up?" He continued flat on his back, glad for the change in posture from the chair.

Bourland sat opposite, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. "I'll wager you've been beating yourself about the why of the accident as much as I've done. Michael wanted to know why, too, and there's never any answer, so I shifted over to the how of it."

"Go on." This must have been what had kept him so busy earlier.

"I had her car taken to a place I know," he said. "A place full of experts. I got them to fine tooth comb it for anything unusual, and set people to interviewing witnesses to the accident. So far nothing untoward has surfaced. It was just as we saw, she lost control on the ice when a freak wind—"

Richard shook his head. "It's more than that, and you know it."

"Yes," Bourland agreed in a carefully even tone. "We both know it. At this point we're the only ones who do. What I'm seeking is any kind of proof of whatever else was involved that caused it. You saw the brake lights when she passed? She was trying so hard to stop that thing and it just . . ." He shut his eyes a moment. "My God. I even felt the snow . . . Richard, this is so bloody impossible."

"I know it is. Can you get past that?"

"To what? Telepathy? Ghosts? UFOs?"

"To being there for Michael, whatever happens."

"Of course I will." Bourland snorted. "You do know how to go for the throat, don't you?"

"No comment. In the meantime, yes, there is a strangeness going on. Michael's projecting visions, and we all had the same dream. Nightmare."

"But why? How?"

"I was hoping Sabra would be able to explain. You may have noticed her insight to . . . spiritual matters; very unique, very strong. She's always used that to help Michael."

"It's hard not to notice their connection. Sometimes when they're together it's like two people with one mind. But it seems to work. She's a bit eccentric on some things, but I know she loves him, and would never harm him."

This was promising, but it was yet a long way from acceptance on the level that might be required. It would be easier to just hypnotize Bourland, give him a basic download of Otherside facts, and tell him not to panic. Not yet, anyway.

"You said Sabra might explain. But you know things also, don't you?"

No escape. Richard sat up to face him. The bitch of it was that he knew so damned little himself. He could clarify some aspects of the shared nightmare, not much more.

Bourland gave him a long look. "Richard, this isn't the time."

"What?"

"I know the signs. It's clear you're steeling yourself up for something unpleasant and this is just not the time. Anyway, I might be ahead of you for once."

Richard was at sea. Had someone kidnapped the Bourland he knew and replaced him with a mind-reading clone?

"I think we can agree on the fact that there is a paranormal aspect to this business. There, the word's on the floor for all to trip over."

"Philip . . . really now . . ."

Bourland raised a hand. "An important part of maintaining intelligent pragmatism is being able to recognize when one is out of one's depth. When you've eliminated all other possibilities, then whatever remains, however bizarre, is probably worth looking into. I've contacted some different experts to look into things. They've sent a team to look over the crash site, take measurements and such; the car's going to one of their labs for more work—"

"What do you mean by 'different experts'?"

"I know of a group that investigates the paranormal, not with ouija boards but with science. One of their senior men is an old school chum of mine, so I rang him up and asked for an assist. As it happens, they were already prepping to send a team off to the Yucatán to look into some odd reports from there."

Richard came fully awake. "Such as . . . ?"

"Don't know yet, that's why they're sending a team. Whether what's drawn their attention has to do with that shared vision remains to be discovered. They've got people operating in London who are checking out similar reports concerning Stonehenge. Of course, my friend was highly curious about my interest and the car and the rest. I said I'd explain later. If I can't then I'll have to buy him one hell of an excellent bottle of scotch to—Matt?"

Bourland's attention snapped toward the doorway, where stood a very tall, lean, bordering-on-the-gaunt, man wearing a black ski cap and sardonic expression. Next to him was a slim woman with honey-blond hair, her cool eyes set in a resolute, beautifully sculpted face.

The man said, "Should my ears be burning?"

"Almost." Bourland got up and went over to shake hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Frank told us to stop and see you before our flight to fun-in-the-sun Meh-hee-co." His gaze settled on Richard a moment, friendly, but oddly analytic. Piercing without being offensive. Richard got the impression his face had just been filed into a highly efficient memory for later retrieval if required. Behind them stood the watchdog fellow, still looking cordial, but observant. The couple had passed inspection and were allowed to invade.

"Excuse us," Bourland shot to Richard, then smoothly herded them from the room without seeming to do so. A very seamless technique of compartmentalizing everyone, if that was his aim. With his position in the government, it must have been second nature to him. "My God, I thought you'd have been kidnapped by space aliens by this time."

"Well, now that you mention it . . ." The rest of the man's reply was obscured by a hospital page.

Richard assumed the couple were the team sent by whatever agency had involved themselves. Apparently they had begun checking things independently prior to Bourland's involvement, and that was perfectly fine; there was no way in hell that Richard would leave Sabra and go haring off to the Yucatán at this point.

He hoped they'd be safe. The man-thing on the pyramid . . . what he'd done . . . he was likely long gone by now, but on his way where? Off to destroy another ancient sacred site? Which? There were thousands. And toward what purpose? What was to be gained by ravaging such places?

"Mr. Dun?"

God, he'd gone sleepy again. He sluggishly realized he'd stretched out as before, and the charming young woman was bending over him with an apologetic smile. Given any other circumstance the view would be exceedingly welcome. He boosted up, rubbing his face as she introduced herself. He didn't snag the name long enough to hold, only that she was a researcher. Didn't seem the type to be burrowing through library stacks, but she had the polish of a confident professional about her.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Philip said you had a dream or vision?" she prompted. "It might help our investigation if you could tell me what you saw."

He glanced at the card she gave him along with her self-introduction and recognized the emblem next to her name. "Oh, you're that lot."

She must have been accustomed to the response and smiled. "You've heard of us."

"Yes. I catch things on the television now and then about your doings."

"You can't believe everything that goes on the air. They generally regulate us to Halloween shows or an exaggerated and garbled documentary."

What a pleasing voice she had, very soft, almost liquid. "Well, you're not running about in tinfoil hats, which puts you ahead of other groups with which I've dealt, but I prefer to keep my name out of any records if you don't mind."

"Not a problem. On request we assign a pseudonym or a letter designation—if we bother. I'm told that this is an informal and off-the-record sidebar to the official investigation. Consider it a private one-on-one."

He decided he liked her. "Thank you."

"Your dream?" She drew out a small tape recorder said the date and time into it and identified him as "Mr. B." He assumed Bourland would be "Mr. A."

Without embellishment or emotional coloring, he described exactly what he'd seen, and after a moment's consideration gave Sharon Geary's name to her.

"This was definitely someone you know?"

"Yes. We were very close once. If you can shed any light on what happened—on where she might be, I would very much like to be informed. Immediately."

"Then you believe you saw and perhaps interacted with an event that actually took place, as it took place."

"I know it did. Just not in this Reality."

She did not inquire what he meant by that, and his respect for her group rose a bit more. "Shared dreams are not unheard of, but the ones I've investigated were not quite so detailed as yours. They more commonly occur between close family members like twins or a parent and child. You and Philip aren't related, are you?"

"I'd say we're brothers under the skin," he said without thinking.

"Well, there is something of a physical resemblance."

"Nonsense."

"Has anyone else had this same experience?"

"My"—he almost said "godson" and changed at the last second— "Our friend in there, in the ICU. She was on her way in to talk with us this morning about it when she had her accident."

"I'm sorry."

"She called me last night, rather early this morning. She'd had an identical vision that woke her. We all saw each other in it, along with many other people we didn't know. It had us rather upset."

"And you couldn't identify the man in it?"

He shook his head. "I wish I could. I saw only his outline in light. The rest was darkness. Sharon was . . . glowing brightly. Very symbolic, I'm sure."

"Philip has suggested that there might have been a paranormal factor to the car crash."

"I would take that seriously, yes."

"We have people checking it out."

"So I've gathered. One thing . . ."

Perfect eyebrows raised with inquiry. "Yes?"

"Please do be very careful while down there, use extreme caution. I did not see the man—or whatever he was—clearly, but my every instinct tells me he's extraordinarily dangerous. If the vision was pure imagination combined with coincidence, then you've nothing to fear. But if not . . ."

"I understand, Mr. Dun."

He put her card in his wallet and passed over one of his own. "If you find out anything about Sharon please don't hesitate to call my cell at any hour no matter how late or early. Consider it urgent. I must know what—what's become of her." He pressed the point home with a firm hypnotic nudge. She blinked and swayed as though he'd done it physically.

"Of course." Her eyes cleared, she favored him with a kind smile, shook his hand, and left.

Oh, God. Sharon.

He rubbed his face again and suppressed a groan. How long since she'd been taken away? He stared at his watch. Over twenty hours. If she was lost in the Otherside she wouldn't have lasted ten minutes with the creatures there. But that snake . . . or god, as Sabra had called it. The young woman had suggested it might be Kukulcan. That couldn't be good. The ancient natives had done blood sacrifice to him. Richard could still call back from memory the smell of it soaked deep into the stones of the pyramid. So much death . . .

He put an arm over his eyes and tried to will himself unconscious but the dreadful thoughts and worries kept coming like legions.

Sharon Geary drifted in darkness, struggling mightily against mind-numbing, heart-stopping terror and mostly succeeding. Wild animals were like that when trapped in a cage. After a few moments of blind panic and beating against the bars they go very still, either conserving effort or fallen into shock. If they didn't get past the shock they died.

She told herself she was conserving effort.

But where . . . ? The last thing she remembered before the dark sealed around her was Richard. He'd just stood there not doing a bloody thing. Then again, what could he be expected to do? Fly up and attack the serpent with his bare hands? That was a bit much to ask, though Rivers had had no trouble doing the latter, it seemed. By God, if she ever got her own hands around his throat . . .

Oh, yes, anger was a great way to keep the fear down to manageable levels.

Where the hell was she?

She felt along one leg of her BDU pants and the cargo pocket there. Her torch was still inside. Brilliant. Pun intended. She pulled it out, holding it away from her, and switched it on.

Not what she expected, though she could never have said what that might have been.

Hand-sized scales, glittering like jewels set in polished steel, completely surrounded her. It was like she was inside a gigantic ball some dozen feet across made from . . .

Mother of God, the sna—serpent—bloody big monster. It was wrapped all around her. A living cage made from its enormous body.

Bad enough, but she was floating in it.

She'd seen films of astronauts training. They achieved a state similar to the microgravity of orbit by going up in a plane and waiting for it to go into a dive, then they seemed to float about the compartment. It looked like great fun until you remembered it lasted only a few moments, then the plane had to come out of its controlled dive and climb again.

Sharon knew she'd been here for much longer than that. Where was "here"? And were they falling? Falling a long, long way?

Think, girl. She wasn't in outer space. What other options were available where gravity was scarce?

Otherside? That didn't seem right. She'd been halfway in it when Rivers threw her from the—by God I'm going kill that bastard!—pyramid. Then the serpent, Kukulcan, had reached her, wrapped around her . . . and it felt like something had seized them both. What could be out there big enough to pull this size of creature off course?

There's always a bigger fish, it seemed, wherever you found yourself.

Cheering thought. Sort of.

Relatively calmer, she drifted close to one of the living walls. Each round of its body was as large across as the biggest oak tree she'd ever seen, and she'd seen some that—my God, it's breathing. Very slow, but constant, she watched in awe the massive expanding and contracting of her prison.

How about that? They had air.

For some reason, she'd not been too very certain about it. She could—rotten thought—be dead, after all. It wasn't likely. She had firm ideas about the afterlife and this wasn't even close.

She studied the structure, such as it was, and made a rough guess on just how large her reptile friend might be to create this size of a hollow space around her with its body.

Oh, yeah. Big. Really, really big.  

Relative to its length and girth, this substantial space was rather small. The thing must be wrapped around her in a very tight, tight knot and likely had yards and yards of itself left over fore and aft.

What, if anything, would happen if she touched it? Would the serpent even notice her? And react? Adversely?

One way to find out.

She touched the scales. Lightly. It'd be just her bad luck if the god was ticklish and crushed her by accident, but nothing happened.

She ran her hand along the curve of flesh, registering the texture, smooth one way, rough in the other as she'd observed on some types of lizards. So the head would be wound in that direction, likely on the outside of the ball it had made of itself. What a relief not to be able to see it. Size factors, scary features, and big teeth aside, she had a gut feeling that it was just not the done thing to look a god in the eye unless one was invited. This god wasn't of a religion she was particularly familiar with, but that didn't matter. It was a respect thing.

"Hallo? Anyone out there?"

Why in hell had she said anything? Well, there were no "keep silent" signs up. Might as well have been. The walls threw her voice back, flat, as though no one wanted to hear her little troubles.

Sod that.

"Hallo? I'm up now. Want to tell me what's going on?"

Uh-oh, that's torn it. She saw and felt a vast shifting all around. Her cage was on the move all right, thankfully not inward. That was good. Don't crush your redheaded date, all right?

Two rounded sections parted lengthwise in a body-long curve. She steadied herself against the opposite wall and shone her torch into the dark opening. It was a good foot wide. Enough for her to squeeze through, but instinct told her that might be a bad idea. Air swept in, indication of wind activity. Until now she'd been unaware of the stuffiness of her confines. It smelled strongly—no surprise there—of snake. They did have a distinctive scent. She knew a man who could smell them. He didn't like them much, either, which might have had to do with his sensitivity to the odor. This place would have given him a heart attack.

Her light caught on a black yet glittering surface. Large. Everything here was large except herself.

Sharon gulped. It was an eye. Kukulcan was looking at her.

Bloody hell, what was the polite thing to do for that? In just about every mythology and religion she'd read up on it was usually a bad moment for the mere mortal who caught the attention of a god.

"Hallo. I'm Sharon."

It didn't blink or move, just kept staring. Snakes didn't have eyelids, did they? Some kind of inner membrane or the like. It threw mammals off-kilter concerning their body language, which they didn't care for, probably why people made such an issue about killing snakes. Even a lion chasing you down on the veldt for its supper can blink. You could understand that, guess what was on its hungry little mind by the smallest facial signals.

No such signals of similarity here. The mind here was as alien as it could get and still be on earth.

Maybe not on earth. Not the world or Reality she knew.

"See here, things were pretty bad back there, an' I'm thinking that you helped me. If that's so, then I thank you."

Holy Mother, what was she doing, chatting up a god?

On the other hand, her gran always said good manners cost nothing and were usually appreciated.

"I'm very glad you came along. But you're probably a bit busy . . . so if the storm's over could you drop me off where I belong? I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble. Any old place will do for me."

The eye withdrew out of range of her light.

After a few moments' wait, she grew curious enough to push over to investigate. It was amazing how quickly she'd gotten used to floating like this, almost like swimming, but you didn't have to worry about drowning.

Or not . . . there's different ways of going without air. She hoped her hollow wasn't completely air tight. Otherwise she'd have to depend on the big fellow outside to remember to let in fresh air when she needed it. Like now.

Peering through the long opening, she played the torch beam around. It ran out of light before the ambient area ran out of darkness. She squirmed partially over the bulk of one coil, trusting the creature would hold itself steady and not squeeze her in two. There, torso out, arse in, like hanging from a Dutch door. Up, down, in, out with the beam. No end to the dark, no structures, no ground, this must be what they mean by infinite . . . wait—a glimmer of something there, far, far above. It was big, ocean big, filled all that part of the sky. If that was sky.

If that was ocean. Maybe, but it was either way over her head, or she was suspended upside down, which did not mean very much here. So if there was no gravity, how was it the water stayed in place? How was it they stayed in place?

"This is very interesting, but I'm not sure what I'm seeing. You trying to tell me there's no landing pads about?"

Sharon sensed rather than saw the great head looming next to her. Hesitantly, she spared it a sideways glance. Yes, very big. Might have even grown some since the brawl with Rivers. She could stand upright in its yawning mouth, stretch high, and still not touch the top of it.

Oh, what a remarkably bad mental picture to conjure up.

For all that, she was almost getting used to its presence. Make that Presence. She'd met a few film stars who had it going for them. Theirs was nothing compared to this fellow's impact. No wonder he had the ancient natives building bloody great temples to him in the heat and humidity.

Bloody. All those poor bastards with their hearts cut out jolly with a knife. Another bad mental picture. She had to stop doing that.

Something flashed past the torch beam, positively rocketing by, with an aggressive organic hum. It provoked a reaction from Kukulcan, who swung his heavy head in that direction, the jaws going wide.

She played the beam all over, trying to see what it was, then it occurred to her, as a seeming earthquake—snakequake?—shuddered through the god's body, that she would be safer inside than out. Hastily, she wriggled back, retreating as best she could. Hard to find purchase, and it was too easy to catch a scrape if she rubbed the wrong way against the scales.

There, ouch, nothing too painful—

Then something slammed noisily against the serpent, and her hollow ball chamber lurched in reaction. She got the barest, fastest glimpse of wings, massive sectional body, claws, eye clusters, and insectoid mandibles. Her mind translated it as a cross between a spider and wasp, bigger than an elephant, which was the only reason it hadn't achieved an entry. The mouth part extended outward, snapping, a long thin tongue shot clear, whipping rapidly all over, seeking. It flicked past her arm and a stray drop of clear fluid flew off, landing on the back of her wrist. Sticky, it was sticky as—God, if that thing touched her and got a good grip . . . no place to hide, no cover, no weapons . . .

She hadn't the breath to summon a scream, and by the time she did, the being vanished. Not as in going invisible, but as in being yanked suddenly away.

Outside there was considerable violent movement and commotion along with a nasty hissing sound like a very large tire venting an air leak. Heart beating fit to burst, she went low toward the opening, aiming her light with a shaking hand.

She definitely had the catbird seat for the battle, such as it was. Kukulcan had the—well, call it a bug for want of anything better—headfirst in his mouth. The evolution-gone-right-out-the-window thing was making a mighty struggle: clawing, hissing, and probably biting, but the serpent's inwardly curved fangs prevented it from escape. The only way out was through, which was via a gigantic digestive tract.

It was strangely fascinating, like watching a train wreck. Come to think of it, the sizes were on the same scale.

Down the bug went, flailing all the way. One of its wings snapped off and floated into the darkness, spinning slowly, streaming black fluid. Very educational, in fact, that was much more information than she ever wanted to know about the workings of its anatomy.

Kukulcan finished the last of it, and she followed the progress of the elephant-sized bulge as it advanced past the feathered crest on its trip down the long gullet.

After-dinner mint, anyone?

She hoped that wouldn't be herself.

The serpent god stared long at her, then the head swung away toward the seeming water above. She followed its gaze.

"Ah—I get you now," she whispered. "I'll just wait inside out of the way, all right? Thanks for the peek. Look after yourself."

She slid quickly in and the long opening sealed tight shut again, enclosing her. She was ready to kiss the scales in gratitude and relief. Good thing she was floating because her knees would have buckled. Was it possible to faint in zero-gravity? She might be the first to find out.

The "water" above them, all that movement, large as an ocean, was composed of a swarm of those overgrown bugs. One of them must have noticed her light and come diving in to investigate. Lucky her, bad luck for it.

Time to sit tight and try to work up some way out for them both, because Sharon didn't think even Kukulcan could eat that many of them in a sitting.

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