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Chapter Seven

Toronto, the Present

Bourland concluded his interview with the tall, angular man, shook hands, and bent to peck the woman affectionately on one cheek. From his vantage by the waiting room, Richard read his lips: "Good luck and take care." They moved off toward the elevators.

He hoped they'd take care, that the woman paid attention to his warning, remembered it if they—

Bourland paused on his way back to look through the glass inset on the ICU doors and remained there. Richard joined him. There was activity by Sabra's bed, a doctor and nurse, studying the clipboard, not the patient.

"It's all right," Richard said. "Routine check. I've seen them do it a dozen times over."

Bourland relaxed, but not by much. "I wish . . ." But he didn't finish.

"I know you do. Come and tell me the latest. Let them get on with their job."

He sighed and followed Richard to the room, where they resumed their chosen seats. This time Richard sat rather than reclined to keep himself awake.

"About that psychic group . . . ?"

Bourland raised a brief smile. "They're off to whatever. I doubt anything will come of it, but I want to cover everything."

"Will they be talking to Michael?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good, because I didn't mention him."

"Neither did I. Nothing on his phasing out, either. That lot would have him in a lab with wires stuck to his head; no, I'm not putting the boy through such nonsense. They can bumble along without his participation."

"You don't seem to have much confidence in them."

"Actually I do so far as the scientific aspect is concerned. But when the hard edge of the universe I know blurs and drifts sideways into the paranormal stuff . . ." Bourland shrugged. "It's rather removed from my usual round. They're all top-notch scientists and researchers, with more PhDs than MIT, but running about with magnetometers trying to find ghosts and decode crop circles? On the other hand one can't expect much, considering the subject matter."

"Too elusive?"

"Yes. But I can't ignore this. Not with what's going on with Michael."

"There's something else you can look into, if possible." Richard said. "And it's concrete, in the hard edge."

"Name it. Please."

"Find out what flights left from the Yucatán today. There must be videos of everyone who passed through customs, there and overseas. I want a look at all the departing and arriving male passengers." That man-thing might have a presence on this Side, and if so, then he was traceable. Of course, there was no guarantee Richard would recognize his human form, but he possessed a better insight than most for it.

Bourland's eyes went wide at the enormity of the task. "All the flights?"

"Connecting ones as well. Whoever was in Chichén Itzá last night and left today, I want to know who it is. You can narrow things down to cross-referencing the names with arriving Toronto flights at first, give them priority. After what happened here, I was thinking . . ."

"A connection to the accident?"

"Maybe." Sabra said that distance meant nothing in Otherside matters, but the force that caused the storm might well be in the area. That's why he'd been at watch over her. In case it returned. That Michael hadn't had any visions since was very reassuring though. "And see if you can track Sharon Geary from there, too."

"Sharon? What's she to do with this?"

He'd forgotten that Bourland might not have recognized her in the vision, having only met her once, way back when. He explained she'd been the one thrown from the pyramid and taken in midair by the flying serpent.

"You're sure it was Sharon?"

"I'm sure. Already gave the name to that young woman who left. Sharon was at Stonehenge the day before, and Michael had his episode then, the one you recorded. Sharon must have seen something there because the next thing she's suddenly on a flight to Cancún."

"How'd you get that?"

"I've a friend at Scotland Yard who owed me a favor. I'm thinking that she saw something, or particularly someone, and followed him. If you can find out what she did and where she went once she arrived in Cancún—I don't know how helpful it might be, but—"

"Right. That kind of intel-gathering is outside my department, but I know some specialists with the resources to crunch massive amounts of data very fast."

Richard rather thought he would.

"Tracing people is their bread and butter, but this won't be easy." Bourland got on his cell phone. The call took some time, first to get through and then to explain the urgency. Next he stared at his phone as though it had just made an insulting noise. He closed it, snorting. "They'll call me back once they've set up a secure whatever-it-is."

"Who are they?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not allowed to say. Part of my work. Official secrets business."

"Oh. That lot." There was one in every country, each with varying degrees of competency.

"Yes, they don't exist."

"Even to each other."

"Especially each other. Seriously, they're a scary bunch, very full of themselves, but damned efficient when they have to be. I'll make sure they have to be. I'll probably catch hell for using them, but bugger that. Who's to say this isn't an international terrorist plot?"

"Whatever it is." Richard rubbed his face again. It was still there, along with the start of a beard. His eyes felt gritty, the lids puffed. If he'd been human he rather thought he'd have a bomb of a headache by now.

Bourland saw and went sympathetic. "Listen, you've been here all day and need a break."

"But I—"

"No. Not an option. I don't care where you go, sleep in the car park downstairs if you like, but get out of here for a few hours. For your own good. And hers."

Richard had accomplished the blood exchange. It would work or not, so there was no reason he couldn't leave for a little while.

"I've exhausted all my distractions," said Bourland. "I need to be here. Besides, that party I called won't show themselves until you've gone."

"Skittish are they?"

He nodded. "Paranoid as hell."

"I'll pick up some things and go over to your place, keep an eye on Michael."

"And rest."

"All right if I borrow your computer?"

"That's not resting."

"Ten minutes. Research."

"Right, I know how that goes, follow one thread and before you know it the whole night's gone by. You'll want the password to open the desktop, but after that the Internet access is open, anything in the files requires more passwords."

"Canadian state secrets are safe from me. The recording you made is all I need. I'd like to see that again."

"Brave man. It's not locked up, just hit 'play' on the DVD; the disk is still inside. Hold out your hand." Bourland wrote down a series of nonsequential letters and numbers on Richard's left palm with a felt tip. "Wash that off when you've learned it."

"What? You've not picked the name or birth date of a loved one?"

"I'm not an idiot. This is harder to memorize but more secure." He gave back the Land Rover keys. "Michael wants to be here first thing in the morning, but see to it he eats. Don't overlook yourself for that, either. I think you've been living on air all day."

They left the room together, Bourland going into the ICU to sit with Sabra, Richard continuing to the elevators. He checked his coat pocket for his cell, though he knew it would be there. Nerves showing. It was a wrench leaving her, but she was being watched over, and at any given time he'd be only a quarter hour away.

Bourland had parked within a few places of where they'd screamed in that morning. It felt like days had passed since then. Richard gulped down cold outside air, grateful for the change. He'd be back before dawn, though.

He slipped into the seat, his body adjusting better to its more comfortable confines than the hospital chair, and went through the routine of starting the vehicle and driving off. St. Michael's stood right on Queen Street; he turned left and sped away as fast as the lights would allow. The streets were still wet, but a full day's worth of traffic had cleared away much of the slick ice.

Another hour or even half hour, and that wide patch of ice across the highway might have been broken down. Would it have made any difference to Sabra if she'd waited? Probably not. That wind. That bloody Otherside wind had been the culprit. Who had sent it? Why?

He tried—again—to block out the memory of her panicked face as she'd passed him, fighting the wheel, slamming the brakes . . .

He was forced to hit his own as some fool darted in front of him and revved away, leaving blue exhaust behind like a parting taunt. He let the annoyance distract him until he reached Neville Park and went right.

End of the block, pull into the drive, park, cut the motor. The house looked different from when he'd left that morning, but he knew the difference was within himself. Catastrophe had turned the familiar alien, showing him once again that he lived in a safe, friendly, sheltered world with no more substance to it than tissue and just as easily ripped.

He went inside, this time to the answering machine first. More ads. He ought to disconnect the ridiculous thing. When the last one played out, he hit the erase and moved glumly to the kitchen.

The blood which he'd taken from Mercedes White would hold him through tomorrow, but he didn't know what to expect over the next few days. From one of the lower vegetable drawers where it was hidden under a still airtight package of three-year-old turkey bacon he drew out a bag of blood. It was also beyond its usable date, but only for medical purposes. It suited him just fine for his singular requirements. He cut a small hole in one corner, poured the lot into an outsized plastic commuter's mug with a sealable top against spillage, and dropped the exhausted bag in the trash compactor. Very tidy. He loved this century.

While gradually drinking his meal, he made quick use of the shower to wake up, shaved, and donned fresh clothes, throwing plenty more into a travel bag. Richard knew the guest room of the faux-Tudor house was open to him for as long as he liked.

He finished the blood, ran water to thoroughly rinse the mug, and shrugged on his long leather overcoat. He loaded the Rover, then went back to set the house alarm and lock up. It was so damned quiet, even the lake. He went out to the end of the street, where the old concrete stairs led down to the beach. The vast plain of water was perfectly still, almost as though it had iced over. That kind of calm didn't happen often. He hoped it wasn't a bad sign, but then he always hoped certain things he noticed weren't a bad sign. Usually as soon as the thought came, it departed, and he forgot it. This one stayed longer than it should. Was that a bad sign?

God, no wonder people fell into superstition.

As he walked around to the driver's side one of his boots trod on a patch of ice the wrong way and that was all it took. He pitched violently forward, hitting the truck and just managing to twist, palms out and arms bent to absorb the shock, a reflex action. That's what kept him from breaking both wrists when he landed on the driveway, but it was a nasty jolt all the same, and set his adrenaline buzzing.

He got up after a minute, grumbling, dusted snow and wet from his front, and slid gingerly into the Rover, favoring new bruises. It took two tries to slot the key, his hand shook so much. When he'd bashed against the Rover's body he'd banged his shoulder rather hard. It wasn't dislocated, but there was a hell of a bruise forming already.

Unsettled by the fall and disgusted for letting it get to him, he shifted gears, backed out, and left, roaring up the street.

What in hell was wrong with the world? He did not need that little surprise.

Fifty yards away, Charon was also disgusted. He'd waited for hours in this exterior deep freeze for his moment and all for nothing. The damn jock's luck had saved him.

Charon dismantled his long rifle with the huge silencer, carefully returning them to their special case. It was hardly worth hauling the thing out of storage if this was to be his only chance. Queered, totally queered, not even one shot. He'd set too narrow a window, gauging the sights and the rest for just this precise distance. Should have bagged Dun when he was at the end of the street looking at the pretty water, aw. But Charon's hand-eye coordination wasn't what it used to be since his change back to human, and the medications were way too good at ballsing them up even more. What should have been an easy-peasy-in-the-barrel snuffing had become a thorny challenge because of his limits.

He didn't dare try after Dun took that fall and dropped behind a row of scraggly bushes. Another hesitation when he stood up and wobbled. Too easy to screw up. Had there been a miss he'd have seen the bullet's impact against the body of his truck and come hunting. Charon was in no shape for any one-on-one dancing with that dude. A couple years ago, perhaps, when he used to swig down the red fire himself, but not now while he was human-weak, not even with the razor-edged bowie knife he'd purchased that afternoon at a sporting goods chain store. Dammit to hell, but he'd had a clear line of sight right to the bloodsucker's chest. It wouldn't have killed him, but certainly have taken him out long enough to move in and cut his head off. Instead, the son of a bitch had been oh-so-conveniently swept from his feet by . . . what?

There'd been no way to get a good look at it, like trying to see wind, but Charon caught an impression, a shimmering flash of silver light zipping along the ground. There was force to it, enough to pitch old Lance right over. What a look on his face. He'd had no clue that something had done him a favor.

Something powerful.

Charon—minus his eye patch now—squinted, frowning, trying to see what was not normally visible. His Sight was usually pretty good, but he was aware of his blind spots, and the stuff eating him alive from the inside out didn't help. Even if he'd been at two hundred percent it might not have served here. That was the problem with the opposition; most of the time they're invisible until it's too late to dodge them. And, for some reason, they often remained so even to their own people.

Damned cagey flakers.

He sensed plenty of energies in this place, some of it natural interference from the nearby water, but there was a decided protective glow hovering around the house, Dun, and his vehicle. He thought about draining it off the property for a recharge, but better not. Fang-boy might be tuned in enough to notice and call his old lady over to play bloodhound. She'd be able to track quick enough. Better to wait until the jock was toast.

There he goes, driving cluelessly toward Queen Street.

Too late to follow, but from the look of the bag Dun carried, he might be away for a few days. No telling where. Off on one of his little quests, tally-ho and rooty-toot-toot, damn him to Hell. The real one.

Charon emerged stiffly from his makeshift hunting blind in the snow-crusted bushes of a side yard. The other houses along the street were occupied. He'd picked this one for the dark windows and snowdrift drive. The occupants, if they had any sense, were in a place where winter was something you only saw in calendar photos. His shiny new arctic gear had served to keep him from freezing during his stakeout, but now he wanted to get truly warm—

A sudden, intense spasm of pain and a wash of weakness, of gut-twisting nausea, halted him in his tracks. It crashed home hard and went on for several minutes, with him fighting it every inch, until he staggered against the house wall and puked his last meal. Then he moved off and dropped to his knees, panting until the booming in his ears subsided. He was covered with a sweat that raised more of a chill in him than the goddamned weather.

Damn. That was starting up again. He hoped he'd left it behind at Chichén Itzá. Great. He fumbled at a pocket and one of the containers tucked inside. Pulling a glove off with his teeth, he wrestled with the child-proof cap and shook out a pill, swallowing it dry. The bitter taste clung to the back of his throat.

That decided him. It would be safer, better to strike Lance down from cover, but Charon couldn't afford to hang here indefinitely hoping for his return. Time was getting short, and he was losing ground.

He didn't want show his presence, though. No sense letting Dun know who he was dealing with until the last possible moment. With any luck, it would be Dun's last possible moment.

Charon wondered what had become of the witchy girl friend. He kept tabs on his enemies, but sometimes it was impossible to find out the why behind their actions. She'd left her Vancouver hermitage and moved here for some reason. Maybe to do with the Grail or so she and Lancelot could start banging each other regularly again. With her turned human too, she couldn't have many years left for it.

Fine with me. Either way, she was conveniently close to a bullet.

She'd not been at home when he phoned. That had been taking a chance, but he figured she'd not be able to identify him if he hung up just as she said 'hello.' But all day long it'd been the freaking answering machine, so there'd been no reason to go driving up to her wilderness hut to whack her.

If he could arrange things just right, make a feint or, if possible, a solid hit at her from a distance, it would bring Dun in roaring, perfectly primed to be chopped.

Which would take some setting up. Might as well plan it in a nice warm hotel room and give the pill a chance to work.

All was quiet at Bourland's house, except for the ubiquitous television noise. Richard was not immune to watching hours of it himself when the mood was on him, but he never left his own set running just for the sake of having it on.

Not so for Michael, who had taken up residence in the TV room. On his way to the office Richard looked in. His godson was sprawled on one of the long sofas there, his socked feet up on its arm. He stared at the screen as though phased out, but was methodically clicking the remote through the satellite channels several times in a row. He finally settled on a hockey game, but pressed the mute button, watching the players gliding on the ice in a silent, near-hypnotic dance.

"Wanna watch?" he asked, barely glancing up.

"Shortly. I've some things to do first."

"You staying over?"

"Your very kind housekeeper's prepping the guest room now."

"Good."

"Are you all right?"

Michael rolled his eyes, exaggerating. "Between her and you and Dad and my therapist . . . I'm fine."

"Your therapist?"

"Dad called her, and we talked on the phone. I'm fine. It's not like I'm made of glass and gonna break, okay?"

"Okay. Then I won't ask if you've eaten anything."

Michael's head lifted and swiveled his way. "There's this pizza place that delivers late . . ."

Richard delved into his wallet and pulled out money. "Get whatever you want, no caffeine in the soda. Don't forget to tip the driver. He'll expect something decent from this neighborhood."

"Deal!" Michael launched up and rolled over the top of the sofa like a commando, just missing a lamp with one of his feet. He tore off to the kitchen where presumably the pizza number would be magnetically clinging to the refrigerator. Richard's was similarly adorned, for his guests' convenience, when he had any. All the food he kept on hand was for show and usually expired. There was a fifteen-year-old can of peas on one pantry shelf that had to be a biohazard by now. Or a collectable ready for an on-line auction.

He moved on to the office to fire up the computer and when it asked, entered the password Bourland supplied. It opened to the desktop without hitch, which was well, since he'd washed the letters and numbers off in the shower.

The DVD player program was on top. He clicked it awake and once more wondered how in hell it had been able to record Michael's vision. Richard had heard of electronic voice phenomenon, where ghostly voices could be recorded on magnetic tape, but this was several light-years beyond that. The mixing of Otherside powers and Realside technology was very unsettling. Especially when they worked.

However it happened, the images on the disk had not lost their ability to disturb. He played the glimpse into this apparent Otherside hell again and again, freezing it for study, hoping for recognizable clues. He felt out of his depth and missed Sabra desperately.

There was only one other who could help them, and she was the breadth of a continent away in an isolated corner of Vancouver. Certainly she would have sensed this calamity, and might be able to help, to explain the signs, but how to contact her . . . ?

"That's the bad stuff, isn't it?" asked Michael, standing in the doorway.

He was too tired to jump. "Yes. It is."

"Dad wouldn't let me look, but I've already seen them in my head."

"You remember them?"

"Yeah, it's like watching a movie trailer. Real fast, so it blurs, but some pictures stay. Can I look at these?"

Richard debated inwardly. Bourland's hesitation must have been based on trying to protect Michael, but the boy seemed unafraid. "All right."

Coming over, Michael studied the screen, frowning. "What do they mean?"

"I was rather hoping you might have an insight."

He shrugged. "Aunt Sabra was going to tell us."

"Wasn't she helping you interpret dreams for yourself?"

"Yeah, sort of, but this is way farther along than we ever got. The one last night with the pyramid and the snake and the rest . . . but that was a vision, not a dream. It just happened to come when I was sleeping."

"It frightened you?"

He moved off to collapse untidily on the tufted leather couch. Didn't boys sit at all? "Yeah. She'd tell me not to be afraid, though, wouldn't she?"

"I'm sure she would."

"You're not afraid, are you, Uncle Richard?"

"Not of a dream, no."

"But that wasn't a dream. It's something that really happened."

"I think so, yes. But none of it was your doing."

Michael's shrugged, quite a feat, given his horizontal position. "I feel like I could have done something to help, but I didn't. All I did was stand there and watch like everyone else. If I'd known more maybe I could have stopped things, but I kinda thought you were supposed to do something."

"Any idea what that might have been?"

"No. I wish I did."

And be careful what you wish for, he automatically thought. "Did you see anything else? I was rather busy looking at the snake."

"Uh-uh. Just that man and woman fighting and the pyramid and the storm . . ." Michael squirmed around until he sat up. "Aunt Sabra told me that sometimes what I see is like that." He pointed to a small TV stuffed into a bookshelf. "When the news is on and they show a story about something awful, you see it, but there's nothing you can do because it's already happened. It's okay to feel bad, but it's not your fault, and it's not the TV's fault for showing you. It just is. And it's going to go on whether you watch or not. When a tree falls in the woods it does make a noise."

Richard agreed.

"Like what happened to me when I was little. Aunt Sabra always says it's not my fault. You all do."

"We're quite right, too."

"I know." But Michael sighed. "I know it up here"—he mashed a palm against his forehead— "but sometimes not here." He thumped his chest over his heart. "That's when it hurts here, too. She says everything's connected. Is what happened in Texas connected to what happened in the vision?"

The only connection Richard knew was Michael himself, but saw no help to the boy in saying it. "I don't know. We'll ask her when she's better." He said this quite on purpose, looking at Michael for a reaction, conscious or not, in case he knew what was to happen. There was none. Sabra was the one with the Sight, for not only seeing the future, but the possibilities of multiple futures. It was just as well Michael did not possess that particular facet of the Gift.

"Is Aunt Sabra dying?" Michael asked.

Richard smiled. "Of course not." And he hoped to God and Goddess that was true.

The doorbell rang. The chimes of Big Ben, of a lesser volume than the original in London, notified the house of a visitor.

"Pizza!" Michael again launched out. It was as though he had two speeds: complete stop and Mach 1, with nothing in between.

He trailed Michael to the front entry, hanging back to allow the boy freedom to enjoy firsthand the pleasure of participating in the wonders of commerce. Still, he kept an eye out for trouble. Some force had made a try at killing Sabra, there was no reason to think Michael might be immune. Richard thought it most unlikely, though. No visions since this morning. Though they were powerful, the boy was yet a novice, not worthy of notice yet from anyone or anything bad. Sabra was the more dangerous foe on that Side.

Michael swept his steaming prize off to the TV room, laying the flat box out on the coffee table and calling for company to come share before he ate it all. The housekeeper, used to the ritual, disappeared and reappeared with paper plates, a wad of paper napkins, glasses, and a bucket of ice for the soda. She took one slice and announced that if Mr. Dun planned to remain, then she'd prefer to go to her own home if that was all right. Richard said it was perfectly fine, thanked her, and off she went. He was invited to dig into the feast, but begged off, claiming he'd eaten earlier. Which was true.

The TV still played the apparently prerecorded hockey game; Michael set the sound to low so small voices droned in undercurrent to his meal.

"Those commentators are so boring," he said. "I mean, we can see what's going on. Do they think we're blind or something?"

"Sometimes they catch things we miss. The cameras aren't always fast enough to follow the action, but the babble can be annoying."

"That's the word. I wish they'd just shut up and let us hear the crowd instead. It'd be more like being there."

The food, such as it was, heavy on pepperoni, peameal bacon, and God knows what else, served to fill up even Michael's usually bottomless stomach. After finishing nearly the whole thing he fell into a doze.

Richard had stretched out on the other sofa to keep him company and found himself drifting off as well. A stray thought, some idea he was sure he should have come up with before, floated toward him, hanging out of reach. He'd forgotten something. No matter. His mind was good at throwing out the right idea given the chance.

Damn, but his shoulder ached from that fall. No matter. It would mend in a few hours, good as new . . .

Normandy, the Past

Richard cracked his heavy eyelids and stifled a grunt of pain. Someone was doing terrible things to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Lord Richard. I did not mean to wake you." The Holy Sister tending him looked stricken.

"What . . . ?"

"I was just bathing it clean."

"Is the tourney over?"

"Yes, your lordship. Two days now."

Two? "Impossible, I was there only this morning."

"And wounded by that afternoon. We brought you here for healing."

"Wounded?" He dimly recalled besting one of the other champions, then in a fit of spite the man on the ground slammed upward with his blade and got under Richard's armor. No one on that side of the field claimed to have seen the dishonorable blow, of course, they were all angered at losing. Richard recalled cursing him and staggering off, and then two squires rushed over to help him back to his pavilion. He'd bled like a pig at the butcher's, and that's where things went thick as fog. "The reckoning—how did it fall?"

"You are still the Champion d'Orleans, your lordship."

He lay back, relieved, then grunted again at the sudden pain of the movement. How his shoulder throbbed. It was as though the sword blade was still in him. He couldn't see much of the wound, just a little of the stitching from the corner of his eye; it was too much work to twist his head to look. He felt hot all over and even his bones seemed bruised.

With a murmured apology for the hurt she must bring, the Holy Sister continued to bathe his wound as gently as possible. He tried not to let his discomfort show, knowing that she and the other women here had been uncommonly kind to him. They always were when he got injured fighting.

"I've slept two days?" he asked, trying to remember.

"And just as well. You would not have liked what we had to do to stop the bleeding."

From the color of the water in her bucket there was still flow from his wound, unless that was from some other hapless warrior under their care. He seemed to have a room to himself, though. Being a duke's son, albeit the third one, had its advantages, though he knew they would have looked after him well whatever his station.

He was wakeful yet lethargic, and too weak to get up. A page sent from the castle to watch his progress was brought in to hold the slop bucket so he could pass water lying sideways on the bed. Richard went dizzy after that. Someone brought him wine mixed with cold broth, but he could only manage the smallest sip, refusing the rest. His belly wouldn't stand it. The fever in his shoulder seemed to be spreading, and no amount of cool, wet cloths on his brow eased it.

In turns Richard shivered and sweated and cursed and whimpered, but nothing curbed the growing pain. He thought another night passed, but could not be sure. The chamber had but a small window, high up, and no real light came through. He was told it had been raining since the tourney, all the time raining, the summer days gone ominously dark . . .

"Not dead yet?"

He didn't bother to open his eyes, recognizing the comfortless voice of Dear Brother Ambert.

"You, there. You hear me?" Richard felt something prod him in the side. A sword or cudgel, it made no difference; he simply didn't care, giving no protest. Thirst tormented him far more than ever Ambert could. Dear Brother sounded drunk. That was normal.

"Lord Ambert, your brother is sorely stricken and needs your prayers lest he die." A woman's voice. The eldest Sister, who was in charge of the place, no less. She sounded severe and reproving. Wasted on Ambert. He had too much of old Montague in him.

"Heaven will get my prayer of thanks when they put him in the ground and good riddance to him."

A gasp of shock. He liked doing that to people. Fortunately, the Sister was canny enough not to respond. Ambert was not above striking a woman, any woman, who annoyed him. By God if he dared, Richard would rise and kill him, wound or no wound.

"See to it I'm told when he's dead, not dying. Until then keep your damned messengers to yourselves. I've more important things to worry about."

Richard looked in time to see Ambert's departing back. The Sister crossed herself, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry . . ." he whispered. He was ashamed to share blood with the man.

She heard and came over. An older woman, thirty at least, she spared him a kindly smile. "Your brother is not your keeper, it seems."

He tried to nod and smile back, but couldn't manage. His lips were so dry and cracked they hurt.

She dipped her fingers in a cup and dripped water into his mouth until he had enough, then smoothed an oil on the chapping. "There, now. Rest. We will pray for your recovery."

But he gave a sudden shiver from cold and stifled a cry of pain. When the tremor passed he knew her prayers would be for nothing. He'd caught a whiff of his own stink; a foulness was coming from his shoulder. Soon it would spread to his blood and that would be the end of him. He had seen enough men fall to it before; now it was his turn.

Oddly, he felt no panic, no regret. He'd done well in his twenty years, and would always be remembered as the undefeated Champion d'Orleans. Life was harsh and laborious and heaven would be all the better after his earthly sufferings. He'd seen worse deaths. All he had to do was go to sleep and wait. He knew how to do that.

The Sister departed as he sank into slumber.

It was uneasy, though. Fever kept him from fully passing out, which was all he wanted. When he was unconscious, he had no pain, and at this point the agony thundering in time to his beating heart was such that dying promised to be his best and only release. He lay in his sweat and panted and prayed for it to come lift him free of his infected and exhausted body. Slow hours passed, and he thought with relief that things were at last fading away as his chamber got darker.

Then one of the Sisters came in with a candle, making a lie of his expectations. He could not see her face, the soft white mantle covering her head came down almost to her lips. The veil was so delicate it seemed to float with her smallest movement. Perhaps she was one of the great and wealthy ladies who took orders to escape their husbands or who had been sent away by a family not wanting an unmarried female in the house. Each of the women here had her own secret story, but all were made alike by their simple robes. For the most part. Sometimes the robes were of fine weave or the woman carried a cross made of gold not wood.

This Sister wore no cross, but she knelt by him and seemed to pray. She seemed very young, a tiny little bird of a woman, with a voice as gentle as mist. She pulled off the wrappings on his wound and clucked over it. The skin on his arm was hot and tight from the swelling.

"Drink," she whispered, lifting his head.

He didn't think he could, but from the cup she held came the clearest, coldest water he'd ever tasted. There was a hint of crushed flowers in it, as though she'd distilled the air of springtime itself. Finally, at last, his awful thirst eased.

"Your pain is no more," she told him decisively after lifting her veil to look hard at him.

She had the most amazing eyes; their light seeming to sweetly pierce him right to his soul. His pain fled. Even when she poured the water over his hot and festering wound he felt nothing of it. Dimly, he noticed when she produced a knife, heating it in the candle flame. It caused him no alarm, not even when she cut into his corrupted flesh, removed the stitches, and laid her hands on to squeeze out the poison.

As though from a distance he heard himself groan piteously in response, but she told him all was well and painless. He utterly believed her. There seemed to be a glow about her form; his eyes playing tricks perhaps.

It entered Richard's head that he was having a vision of the Holy Mother Herself, though why She would be concerned for him in particular was beyond his ken.

She paused in her work, giving in to a shudder and catching her breath. It was an altogether human reaction, but he could still not shed the impression of an unworldly presence.

Washing the wound again in the cold, cold water, she stitched him back up and lay a fragrant poultice on it, pressing it down firmly against the outraged flesh and holding it hard in place. He should have been screaming, but as she told him, he felt nothing.

"Lady . . ."

"Hush, all is well."

Then she sang to him, very softly so only he could hear. He didn't know the words, but there was no need; he understood them from a place outside his mind. They went straight to his heart, kindling feelings he never knew existed. She soothed him without and lightened him within.

This is how safe and loved a child feels when his mother sings him to sleep.

No one had ever done that for Richard. His mother had died birthing him long ago.

What a lovely, lovely voice this woman had. He wanted to tell her so, tell her quite a lot, but one mustn't say such things to a Sister.

As he began to finally drift away, she leaned close to kiss his brow. "Live and thrive, my Richard," she whispered and turned to leave.

He raised one hand toward her, wanting her to stay. "Wait . . .  please . . ." He forced his eyes open . . .

 . . . and looked on the face of his brother Edward looming over him.

It was no mistake. Strong daylight poured into the room from the high window.

"How, now, Dickon? Are you going to stay with us after all?" Edward gently asked.

"Where is the Holy Sister?"

"Here, Lord Richard."

But the woman who replied was the eldest Sister who had dealt with Ambert. She seemed pleased.

"The other one," he said. "The one who cared for me last night."

She gave him a puzzled smile. "We were here for you, we only."

"The other one," he insisted. "She sang."

She and Edward exchanged a glance, then she left. He found a low stool and sat next to the bed. "You worried everyone, Dickon."

"All but two," he said without bitterness. Ambert had appeared once to sneer, and Montague had simply not come. But for Edward to have traveled so far for a visit . . . Richard was deeply glad of that. "Water . . . please."

Edward dipped a cup into a bucket by a small table. He carefully held Richard's head, tilting the vessel so it would not spill. One would think he tended the sick every day. His hands were so much larger than hers had been . . . but the water was the same.

"Drink, you must try some," said Richard.

Shrugging, he took a sip.

"Is it not good water?"

"Very good."

"Don't you taste it?"

"What?"

"Sweet, like flowers."

Edward made naught of the miracle. "I suppose the Sisters flavor it. They know much of herbs."

"But that one who came, she tended me all night, took away my fever. I must thank her."

"What did she look like?"

As best he could Richard described her and what she'd done, especially how she'd freed him from pain through what should have been the worst torment.

"I've seen none here like that," said Edward. "And they all turned out for my arrival."

They would, since he was a bishop now. As a scion of the d'Orlean's house of course he would rise quickly within the church no matter what, but it didn't hurt that he could also read and write. He was very good at it, too.

"When did you get here?" asked Richard.

"Three days ago they sent for me. I was told that if God was merciful I might arrive in time to deliver the last prayers to speed you to heaven. It would seem He is being most kindly to spare me from the work."

Edward's humor had ever a backward slant, but Richard found he could smile. "I've slept long, then."

"You've barely slept at all, Dickon. I was sitting right here for the better part of two days, you just didn't know it. We kept praying for the fever to leave you. Only last night did it finally break."

"But she was here. She came at sunset and cared for and sang to me for hours."

Edward pursed his lips, looking solemn beyond his years.

Richard, cast about for some other proof besides the water, and touched the poultice. His wound was still tender, but like a bruise, not a raging fire. "She put this on me after cleaning out the rot."

"Ah—yes—well . . ."

"Was it one of the others?" Richard desperately wanted that not to be true.

"Actually, it's a bit of a mystery to us."

"How so?"

"You say this was last night?"

"It must be, for I was like to die from the fever, and she took it away. You said it broke last night."

"There were several of us sitting vigil here then. Through the whole of the night. No Sister tended you in the way that you said. When light came one of them noticed your dressings and stitches were different, and the poultice was in place."

Richard's heart pounded. "What does it mean?"

"That . . . we all must have fallen asleep."

He couldn't believe it. "Everyone?"

"So it would seem. And while we slept, this unknown Sister came and tended you."

"Without waking anybody? How did she get in? The gates are always locked."

Edward spread his hands. "I was here. I saw no such woman. Not here, anyway."

"You know her."

"I can't be certain if she was the same one, but a veiled Sister came to the monastery insisting I hasten to see my wounded brother. I knew there was a tourney on, but Ambert had sent no word that you'd been hurt."

"He wouldn't."

"She arrived at the monastery gate on horseback—a very fine animal it was, too—with no escort. What Sister would travel such a distance alone and that way? And at night in the rain? None that I know. She was as you said: a tiny little bird of a woman, young. I cannot be sure of her voice being beautiful since she was shouting, not singing. Once she gave her message to me, she kicked the animal and took off. Never saw a woman ride a horse so well. Held on like she was part of its own skin then vanished into the darkness."

"But you saw her."

"I saw that woman." Edward liked to be precise. "If both are the same, then yes, she is real."

"How can she not be?"

"Well, you said you thought she might be a vision of the Holy Mother. What if she was? The one here, that is."

Richard deliberated for some while. He was tired, very weak, but his mind had cleared, and his memory was fresh. "No, she could not have been."

"You're so certain?"

"Had she been the Holy Mother, then . . . I would have not felt as I did toward her."

"And how is that?"

Richard frowned. The eldest Sister stood just beyond the doorway, her clasped hands hidden by her robe sleeves, her head respectfully bowed, pretending not to listen. "Closer."

Edward obliged, leaning in.

"I'm speaking to you brother to brother, not brother to bishop."

"Speak on then."

He did, in his lowest voice. "I felt toward her as a man feels toward a woman. If that was the Holy Mother, then . . ."

Edward straightened, smiling. "Yes. Quite blasphemous, I'm sure. So this woman could not have possibly been a Vision. The Holy Mother inspires devotion, but not that kind."

"I'm glad you agree. Very glad." Despite his conviction, Richard had been sincerely worried for a moment. He now felt exceedingly heavy, especially at the eyelids. Couldn't seem to keep them raised for some reason. "Find her, will you? I want to thank . . ."

When he dreamed, he heard her singing.

Despite Edward's official dismissal of the event, or perhaps because of it, the story got out, and seemingly in an instant the puzzling mystery bloomed into a major miracle. Whenever Edward came to visit during the early days of Richard's recovery he brought a new version to tell.

The best was that the Holy Mother had appeared at the altar in the hospice hall in a blaze of light that rivaled the sun. All the warriors who happened to be touched by that glow were immediately healed of their wounds and told to never fight again. This was widely believed despite the fact that many of the men being cared for in the hall remained in their beds, either healing or dying.

"I don't remember that taking place," Richard said, almost chuckling. It hurt to laugh, but he was able to sit up today, and had begun eating more strengthening food than wine and broth. He'd just experimented with bread dipped in warm honey, and it seemed to want to stay down.

"Neither does anyone else, but the villagers are passing it about as fact. I shall have to speak about it at the Sabbath mass. I'll tell them exactly what happened as we know it and let them walk through the hospice to see for themselves. Doubtless they will make a tale of it, but at least I'll have done the right thing."

"You're staying that long?" Edward's visits were rare and usually brief in duration.

"The good Sisters here are expecting it. Mustn't disappoint them. They seem to like hearing me say mass."

"Do you like what you do?" To Richard, his brother's isolated life behind protected walls dealing with spiritual matters was at best, bizarre, and worst, a living hell. He counted himself most fortunate to have escaped such a fate.

"Yes, very much. Of course, it's not nearly as rousing as getting your arm half lopped off in tourney battles, but has its rewards. I'm also a very busy man, so you keep yourself out of trouble from now on. Can't expect me to drop the whole lot and leave just to look in on you every time you're like to die."

"Then I'll to come by and visit you instead. My last winnings included a fine mount."

"I saw him. You've finally got yourself a horse to suit your size. He's not gelded, either. You'd best find a mare sturdy enough to handle him and breed more of the same."

"I plan to."

"Good. I wouldn't count on continuing with tourneys to support you in your old age."

"If I live to see it."

Edward looked at him a moment with an odd, amused expression. "I think of all of us, you're the one who will. The chances are against it with what you do, but I've a feeling—"

"What?" An abrasive voice interrupted him. "Prophesy from the priest? You get above yourself, Brother."

Ambert stood in the doorway, one hand on his sword belt, the other holding a riding whip.

Edward stiffened slightly, then abruptly relaxed. Smiling and kind, he turned. "Hallo, Ambert. Good to see you engaged in charitable works. I've been told the depth of concern you showed to Richard on his sickbed."

"Faugh." Ambert was impervious to sarcasm, even when he wasn't too drunk to understand it. He seemed clear on the meaning today. He swung his attention on Richard. "So—the pup's to live after all."

"Indeed. This evening we hold a special mass of thanksgiving for his recovery. You'll come of course. My son."

The last was proof that Edward still had some devilry in him. There were few other things that set Ambert off than the reminder his younger brother was in a position of power over him. In spiritual matters. Though not a very secure place—for Ambert was loath to pay much mind to the nurturing of his soul—it was sufficient to infuriate him. He turned a dark, murderous eye on Edward, who continued to inoffensively smile. "I'll be there—and see to it you regret the invitation."

"You will behave yourself, Ambert. God's house is no place for drunken riot and disruption."

"Or what, you'll damn me to Hell? I can find a dozen other priests to pray me out again."

Edward stood. "Yes, as a priest I can damn you to Hell, but as your brother I can send you there myself. Don't forget what I used to be before I took orders. It was a rare day when I couldn't best you when I chose, remember?"

Ambert rumbled under his breath, apparently remembering his broken ribs. "You'd fight me in the church?"

"And win. I'd do penance, but it'd be worth it for the story to follow. Lord Ambert d'Orleans, beaten to a pulp before the whole congregation by a lowly monk. Think of the bread your enemies will make of that grain. Before the story gets too far they'll have you being worsted by one of the younger castrati. I think you'd rather not have that put abroad."

Red faced, Ambert lashed out with the riding whip, cutting right at Edward's eyes with the handle, but his brother's arm came up fast, blocking the blow. He got a grip and pulled, twisting, yanking the whip clear. In a second Ambert was on him, and it was pummeling fists and roars as they thrashed about the chamber. Richard watched unmoved and unalarmed from his bed, thinking that it was just as it was when they were growing boys.

With a difference, now.

Edward was not as tall as Ambert, but more robust. The monastic life toughened a man. Ambert's nightly devotions took him to the wine cask, not an altar, and it was clear which was better for the health of one's mortal body. He was soon stretched on his back, puffing greedily for air, while Edward stood over him, rubbing his barked knuckles, looking satisfied.

"I always enjoy your visits, Ambert. You've a way of making the dullest day interesting, but we mustn't overexcite Richard. You should be off now." He hauled Ambert from the floor, and shoved him staggering away. "See you at mass, my son." He slammed the door shut, and put his back against it to prevent a return attack. One of the seams in the front of his robe had parted wide in the set-to, and he noticed. "Dear me. Have to sew that up, won't I?"

Oh, God, it hurt to laugh, yet Richard couldn't help himself. He held his sore shoulder, trying to keep from pulling the stitches. "You are a wicked, wicked man, Brother Bishop."

Edward had better success reining in his humor, dusting his robes and straightening them out. He sighed, wearing a face of dignified long-suffering. "Yes, after each visit home I spend more and more time in the confessional reciting my most recent sins. Ambert makes it too easy for me to wander astray."

"You're not angry, though. You used to get so incensed with him all the time."

"And one time too many." He sighed as he always did for that grim memory, then glanced wryly at Richard. "See, I have grown like a tree, with a much thicker skin than a few years ago. Once one of his axe-blows would have cut me down. Now I feel I could dull the edge, if not shatter it."

"This is what doing God's work has done for you?" Richard felt a small pang of envy for his brother's self-control, his apparent immunity to Ambert.

"In part, along with travel and learning to see the truth about people." He came and sat next to the bed again. "It will do you well to come along with me the next time I make a long journey. You've not seen much of the world yet. There are places behind the horizon you can't begin to imagine."

"When I'm better." Richard wanted to do that. "Just send word. Father will give me leave to go if you ask it."

Edward snorted. "Make that 'request and require as my office demands.' He still has some respect for the Church. It is my title, not me, he listens to for such matters."

"But he does listen."

"There's more to it. My life is no longer hostage to him. I have no more need of his good will for my meat, drink, and bed. Once I took orders his hold over me ceased. He'd never admit it, but he understands that if he is less than civil I will leave him entirely, never to return. His pride won't stand for that. Ours is an ugly give-and-take dance at times, but he does know when to back down, and I know how far not to push him. That's how we're able to get along. You need to do the same for yourself."

"Take orders?"

"If you're called, but in the meantime work to get yourself free of him. Build up your tourney winnings, breed horses and sell them, see to it he never knows what's in your purse. Make yourself independent."

It sounded wonderful, but Richard knew that could never be, and said as much. "I've already sworn fealty. He'll never release me from that. Even if you speak to him, he won't."

"He could change. I did. He might. Ambert, too. Any man can change if—"

"Edward, there are too few good hearts like you and too many of them."

"All right, then here's something more reasonable to think on. Father won't live forever. When he dies, what will happen to you, the Champion d'Orleans, with Ambert as the duke? Life is uncertain, Father could pass ten years from now or in the next hour."

"I've not thought of that."

"You haven't wanted to."

"No, but I expect I can find a place in one of the other households. Far from here, so Ambert can't order them to turn me away. And if worse came to worst . . ." He trailed off, and felt some nonfeverish heat in his face for what he almost said.

Edward grinned and finished for him. "You'd take orders. You in a monastery. There's a laugh. It sits well with me, but you, Dickon?" He shook his head and chuckled.

"I'll find something. I will. It's just hard to work anything out. Ambert's got a sharp eye for what he calls mischief, and that's whatever I do that benefits me. Whenever I get any gold to call my own he sees to it I turn it over to Father. For 'safekeeping' he calls it. I never see any afterward, though."

"Then I think you would be well advised to become more pious than you've been. This wounding of yours can account for the change of manner. Donate your winnings to the Church before Father gets them."

"But I—oh. You'd look after them for me?"

"Of course. Your coinage will be safer in the monastery than your room in the castle with Ambert roaming about. If you've any from this last contest, I can carry it along when I return."

Richard had trouble taking it in. Not so many years ago, he'd have never trusted Edward with any small possession he might have hoarded for his own. Now he was turning his future over to him. And it was all right. He knew in his heart his brother would truly watch out for him. "Thank you."

"Bless you, my son." Edward raised his right hand, making their pact a sacred responsibility, but given and accepted with a fond smile.

Richard laughed, but kept it subdued to spare his shoulder.

Then Edward went serious. "Mark this, Richard: you and Ambert are each dangerous, and in some ways you're both fools, but his words and acts are inspired by fear, yours inspired by honor. That's why you will always be the stronger, and well does he know it. For all that, beware of him."

"I always am."

"I mean especially now, while you are in a weak position." He bent and picked up the fallen whip, giving it to Richard.

He took it with his working hand. The thing was uncommonly heavy, the bulb-shaped end weighted. Pushing aside the leather braiding revealed the dull gray of poured lead. It made a fearsome weapon without looking like one. "You think he—"

"I think nothing. But we both know him well. He may not have come here with the intent to use that on you, but with his temper and you all but helpless . . ."

"One thing leads to another."

"He's a bully, and they ever single out the weak, and this is as weak as I've seen you since before the day you beat him into the mud."

"Even he can't still remember that or hold it against me. Too much wine."

"Can't he? When was the last time he ever forgot an insult, real or fancied? Beware of him, always."

Richard nodded, solemn.

"I'll stay until you're on your feet, that should be enough, though I'm thinking you have a far stronger protection over you than I can provide."

"The Lady?" The thought of her warmed him inside.

"Whether she was real or a dream, she would seem to be looking out for you."

"Were that so, then she might have turned aside the other man's blade and spared me a bleeding in the first place."

"I was told what happened by the squires who saw. It was an evil thing he did. Sometimes good is unable to see what evil is up to, and despite our best efforts terrible things come to pass. She did mend you afterwards, though."

"Saved my life, you mean."

"Indeed. No doubt for some good purpose, so don't waste it. Hm?"

Toronto, the Present

Richard's cell phone trilled, jerking him abruptly from what had been a deep, satisfying sleep. Where the hell was he? Bourland's TV room, the hockey game replaced by a tennis match, the sound low and droning, with Michael on the other couch, twisted around like a pretzel and thoroughly unconscious. Only children ever seemed able to reach that depth of sodden slumber. Memory reasserted itself as Richard noted the late hour on the clock above the television. He hurriedly checked his cell's caller ID. Not Bourland's number, so no problem at the hospital. An unknown in fact. Who'd be phoning him this late?

One way to find out. "Hallo?"

"Mr. Dun?" The voice seemed distant, but was recognizable: the lovely lady who had interviewed him so much earlier that evening.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to wake you. The time zones are the same, but it's still late."

"Not at all. How's Cancún?"

"Not a clue. We've been on the run since landing. We only just got back from the ruins. We're staying in Merida."

The name meant nothing to him; he assumed it was close to their investigation area. "Have you news of Sharon Geary?"

"Sort of. It's not much, but I thought you'd want a report."

Well, he'd primed her for exactly this. "What's going on?"

"Nothing at the moment, we didn't expect to start until tomorrow, but were told there was some ceremony on tonight, so we got fast transportation out to Chichén Itzá to catch it."

"Ceremony?"

"It was a kind of summoning to bring back the spirit of their old god. According to one of the elders here, the god was stolen from them, and their holy man murdered by the thief. That's as much as we could get being outsiders. They wouldn't let us talk to the shaman—I mean—ahkin. He was busy and still new at the job. His old teacher died early this morning. At the airport."

"Died? How?"

"The authorities aren't sure yet. There's some to-do about the body. His people—the ones claiming he was murdered—want him back, but the doctors want to perform an autopsy. What with the world situation they're very hyper about biological weapons, and an old peasant man who's never been more than a mile from his forest village suddenly dying at the airport is suspicious. So far as I can see from a report made at the scene by the ambulance people there was no sign of obvious foul play. The man just collapsed, with bleeding from his nose, eyes, and ears. There are some perfectly normal disorders to account for those symptoms, but combined with other things like your vision, it works out to be odd."

"Why was he at the airport?"

"According to the elder, he was chasing down the thief. He fought with him and lost. But airport security maintains all was quiet, business as usual when it happened. In fact, the only disturbance was him dropping dead."

"Could his people describe this thief?"

"Not in concrete terms. Emotional, yes, but nothing the police could track. If I had to make a guess—and this goes against the scientist in me—I might think he was the one you saw in the vision. Others here—the locals—claimed to have had a similar dream last night."

"Really?" All those other lights. People standing there . . .

"They said they saw a spirit of darkness fighting a spirit of light on top of the god's temple. The darkness threw down the light, but their god rushed in to catch it. That's when he disappeared into a larger darkness, taking the light with him."

"That sounds familiar." The sparse information was full of meaning for him.

"Your story, but in more symbolic terms."

"About the light—if that was Sharon Geary—have they any idea where she is?"

"It's a fuzzy area. We're having translation problems but should have them sorted by tomorrow. We've got a meeting set up with the ahkin if he's rested enough to talk. The ceremony took a lot out of him, though all I saw was him sitting there in front of the Temple of Kukulcan. He might have been doing his version of a spirit walk, and I've heard those can be very exhausting."

"Did it work? The ceremony."

"From everyone's reaction, I don't think so. They all looked disappointed.

"And no word of where Sharon might be?"

"We've started an ordinary inquiry with the police. She took a hotel room, but hasn't been seen since she checked in. They're supposed to go through her things, see if there's any clue of her whereabouts or where she's been. If we're lucky they might let us have a turn in the morning. I'm sorry there's not more."

"I'm sure you're doing your best. You sound all in, though."

"Still in my city clothes and asleep on my feet," she confessed.

"Then get to bed. Thank you for calling."

"My pleasure, Mr. Dun," she warmly assured him, and she sounded wholly sincere.

They rang off. He reflected there was a peril to hypnotizing women, even briefly, even for a purpose other than acquiring nourishment. It made for a hell of a strong connection to him. Fortunately the effect faded with time, but in the interim . . .  well . . . there it was, a one-to-one fan club between them.

Sharon. His mind snapped back to the larger peril for her. The police there had not, apparently, found a body, but then they wouldn't be able to if she'd been pulled into the same place with the great snake god.

Which was where? Richard couldn't begin to speculate, for then he ran though the same futile thoughts and worries and resentments that had tumbled through his mind since the accident. This was when Sabra was needed the most and her Goddess had let that happen? Why? Why her? 

Despair flooded him for a moment. He bowed his head, fighting it.

The Grail, you fool.  

He came up, fully alert, his heart pounding with excitement and hope. Dear God, but he should have thought of it before, first thing in fact, even before exchanging blood. Why had he not? No matter. It had healed her before, it would again. He'd run up to her house, grab it—

The tennis game on the television screen seemed to ripple. It did not look like a normal kind of service disruption, not with those colors. The image twisted and danced, ceasing to be players on a clay court and becoming something . . . else.

He caught his breath and glanced at Michael. There was no outward sign from him of anything being amiss except for the quick darting movements of his eyes beneath their lids. He was dreaming again.

Forms flowed over the screen like fish shadows in a fast-running stream. Bits began to coalesce, hold in place, making blurred letters.

They eventually spelled out "protect."

A frisson of chill went through him. He frowned. What the hell did that mean? "Protect from what? Protect who?" Was this a warning or an instruction?

Eventually: "S 2 prtct her."

Then the screen popped back to normal again, players lobbing a ball over a net and back again. Michael had not stirred, was even snoring softly.

But he was smiling.

It was such a sweet, ingenuous expression, and so unexpected that Richard felt a strange lifting in his heart.

His cell phone trilled.

"Get down here," said Bourland, and his voice was dreadful.

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Contents
Framed

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Contents

Chapter Seven

Toronto, the Present

Bourland concluded his interview with the tall, angular man, shook hands, and bent to peck the woman affectionately on one cheek. From his vantage by the waiting room, Richard read his lips: "Good luck and take care." They moved off toward the elevators.

He hoped they'd take care, that the woman paid attention to his warning, remembered it if they—

Bourland paused on his way back to look through the glass inset on the ICU doors and remained there. Richard joined him. There was activity by Sabra's bed, a doctor and nurse, studying the clipboard, not the patient.

"It's all right," Richard said. "Routine check. I've seen them do it a dozen times over."

Bourland relaxed, but not by much. "I wish . . ." But he didn't finish.

"I know you do. Come and tell me the latest. Let them get on with their job."

He sighed and followed Richard to the room, where they resumed their chosen seats. This time Richard sat rather than reclined to keep himself awake.

"About that psychic group . . . ?"

Bourland raised a brief smile. "They're off to whatever. I doubt anything will come of it, but I want to cover everything."

"Will they be talking to Michael?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good, because I didn't mention him."

"Neither did I. Nothing on his phasing out, either. That lot would have him in a lab with wires stuck to his head; no, I'm not putting the boy through such nonsense. They can bumble along without his participation."

"You don't seem to have much confidence in them."

"Actually I do so far as the scientific aspect is concerned. But when the hard edge of the universe I know blurs and drifts sideways into the paranormal stuff . . ." Bourland shrugged. "It's rather removed from my usual round. They're all top-notch scientists and researchers, with more PhDs than MIT, but running about with magnetometers trying to find ghosts and decode crop circles? On the other hand one can't expect much, considering the subject matter."

"Too elusive?"

"Yes. But I can't ignore this. Not with what's going on with Michael."

"There's something else you can look into, if possible." Richard said. "And it's concrete, in the hard edge."

"Name it. Please."

"Find out what flights left from the Yucatán today. There must be videos of everyone who passed through customs, there and overseas. I want a look at all the departing and arriving male passengers." That man-thing might have a presence on this Side, and if so, then he was traceable. Of course, there was no guarantee Richard would recognize his human form, but he possessed a better insight than most for it.

Bourland's eyes went wide at the enormity of the task. "All the flights?"

"Connecting ones as well. Whoever was in Chichén Itzá last night and left today, I want to know who it is. You can narrow things down to cross-referencing the names with arriving Toronto flights at first, give them priority. After what happened here, I was thinking . . ."

"A connection to the accident?"

"Maybe." Sabra said that distance meant nothing in Otherside matters, but the force that caused the storm might well be in the area. That's why he'd been at watch over her. In case it returned. That Michael hadn't had any visions since was very reassuring though. "And see if you can track Sharon Geary from there, too."

"Sharon? What's she to do with this?"

He'd forgotten that Bourland might not have recognized her in the vision, having only met her once, way back when. He explained she'd been the one thrown from the pyramid and taken in midair by the flying serpent.

"You're sure it was Sharon?"

"I'm sure. Already gave the name to that young woman who left. Sharon was at Stonehenge the day before, and Michael had his episode then, the one you recorded. Sharon must have seen something there because the next thing she's suddenly on a flight to Cancún."

"How'd you get that?"

"I've a friend at Scotland Yard who owed me a favor. I'm thinking that she saw something, or particularly someone, and followed him. If you can find out what she did and where she went once she arrived in Cancún—I don't know how helpful it might be, but—"

"Right. That kind of intel-gathering is outside my department, but I know some specialists with the resources to crunch massive amounts of data very fast."

Richard rather thought he would.

"Tracing people is their bread and butter, but this won't be easy." Bourland got on his cell phone. The call took some time, first to get through and then to explain the urgency. Next he stared at his phone as though it had just made an insulting noise. He closed it, snorting. "They'll call me back once they've set up a secure whatever-it-is."

"Who are they?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I'm not allowed to say. Part of my work. Official secrets business."

"Oh. That lot." There was one in every country, each with varying degrees of competency.

"Yes, they don't exist."

"Even to each other."

"Especially each other. Seriously, they're a scary bunch, very full of themselves, but damned efficient when they have to be. I'll make sure they have to be. I'll probably catch hell for using them, but bugger that. Who's to say this isn't an international terrorist plot?"

"Whatever it is." Richard rubbed his face again. It was still there, along with the start of a beard. His eyes felt gritty, the lids puffed. If he'd been human he rather thought he'd have a bomb of a headache by now.

Bourland saw and went sympathetic. "Listen, you've been here all day and need a break."

"But I—"

"No. Not an option. I don't care where you go, sleep in the car park downstairs if you like, but get out of here for a few hours. For your own good. And hers."

Richard had accomplished the blood exchange. It would work or not, so there was no reason he couldn't leave for a little while.

"I've exhausted all my distractions," said Bourland. "I need to be here. Besides, that party I called won't show themselves until you've gone."

"Skittish are they?"

He nodded. "Paranoid as hell."

"I'll pick up some things and go over to your place, keep an eye on Michael."

"And rest."

"All right if I borrow your computer?"

"That's not resting."

"Ten minutes. Research."

"Right, I know how that goes, follow one thread and before you know it the whole night's gone by. You'll want the password to open the desktop, but after that the Internet access is open, anything in the files requires more passwords."

"Canadian state secrets are safe from me. The recording you made is all I need. I'd like to see that again."

"Brave man. It's not locked up, just hit 'play' on the DVD; the disk is still inside. Hold out your hand." Bourland wrote down a series of nonsequential letters and numbers on Richard's left palm with a felt tip. "Wash that off when you've learned it."

"What? You've not picked the name or birth date of a loved one?"

"I'm not an idiot. This is harder to memorize but more secure." He gave back the Land Rover keys. "Michael wants to be here first thing in the morning, but see to it he eats. Don't overlook yourself for that, either. I think you've been living on air all day."

They left the room together, Bourland going into the ICU to sit with Sabra, Richard continuing to the elevators. He checked his coat pocket for his cell, though he knew it would be there. Nerves showing. It was a wrench leaving her, but she was being watched over, and at any given time he'd be only a quarter hour away.

Bourland had parked within a few places of where they'd screamed in that morning. It felt like days had passed since then. Richard gulped down cold outside air, grateful for the change. He'd be back before dawn, though.

He slipped into the seat, his body adjusting better to its more comfortable confines than the hospital chair, and went through the routine of starting the vehicle and driving off. St. Michael's stood right on Queen Street; he turned left and sped away as fast as the lights would allow. The streets were still wet, but a full day's worth of traffic had cleared away much of the slick ice.

Another hour or even half hour, and that wide patch of ice across the highway might have been broken down. Would it have made any difference to Sabra if she'd waited? Probably not. That wind. That bloody Otherside wind had been the culprit. Who had sent it? Why?

He tried—again—to block out the memory of her panicked face as she'd passed him, fighting the wheel, slamming the brakes . . .

He was forced to hit his own as some fool darted in front of him and revved away, leaving blue exhaust behind like a parting taunt. He let the annoyance distract him until he reached Neville Park and went right.

End of the block, pull into the drive, park, cut the motor. The house looked different from when he'd left that morning, but he knew the difference was within himself. Catastrophe had turned the familiar alien, showing him once again that he lived in a safe, friendly, sheltered world with no more substance to it than tissue and just as easily ripped.

He went inside, this time to the answering machine first. More ads. He ought to disconnect the ridiculous thing. When the last one played out, he hit the erase and moved glumly to the kitchen.

The blood which he'd taken from Mercedes White would hold him through tomorrow, but he didn't know what to expect over the next few days. From one of the lower vegetable drawers where it was hidden under a still airtight package of three-year-old turkey bacon he drew out a bag of blood. It was also beyond its usable date, but only for medical purposes. It suited him just fine for his singular requirements. He cut a small hole in one corner, poured the lot into an outsized plastic commuter's mug with a sealable top against spillage, and dropped the exhausted bag in the trash compactor. Very tidy. He loved this century.

While gradually drinking his meal, he made quick use of the shower to wake up, shaved, and donned fresh clothes, throwing plenty more into a travel bag. Richard knew the guest room of the faux-Tudor house was open to him for as long as he liked.

He finished the blood, ran water to thoroughly rinse the mug, and shrugged on his long leather overcoat. He loaded the Rover, then went back to set the house alarm and lock up. It was so damned quiet, even the lake. He went out to the end of the street, where the old concrete stairs led down to the beach. The vast plain of water was perfectly still, almost as though it had iced over. That kind of calm didn't happen often. He hoped it wasn't a bad sign, but then he always hoped certain things he noticed weren't a bad sign. Usually as soon as the thought came, it departed, and he forgot it. This one stayed longer than it should. Was that a bad sign?

God, no wonder people fell into superstition.

As he walked around to the driver's side one of his boots trod on a patch of ice the wrong way and that was all it took. He pitched violently forward, hitting the truck and just managing to twist, palms out and arms bent to absorb the shock, a reflex action. That's what kept him from breaking both wrists when he landed on the driveway, but it was a nasty jolt all the same, and set his adrenaline buzzing.

He got up after a minute, grumbling, dusted snow and wet from his front, and slid gingerly into the Rover, favoring new bruises. It took two tries to slot the key, his hand shook so much. When he'd bashed against the Rover's body he'd banged his shoulder rather hard. It wasn't dislocated, but there was a hell of a bruise forming already.

Unsettled by the fall and disgusted for letting it get to him, he shifted gears, backed out, and left, roaring up the street.

What in hell was wrong with the world? He did not need that little surprise.

Fifty yards away, Charon was also disgusted. He'd waited for hours in this exterior deep freeze for his moment and all for nothing. The damn jock's luck had saved him.

Charon dismantled his long rifle with the huge silencer, carefully returning them to their special case. It was hardly worth hauling the thing out of storage if this was to be his only chance. Queered, totally queered, not even one shot. He'd set too narrow a window, gauging the sights and the rest for just this precise distance. Should have bagged Dun when he was at the end of the street looking at the pretty water, aw. But Charon's hand-eye coordination wasn't what it used to be since his change back to human, and the medications were way too good at ballsing them up even more. What should have been an easy-peasy-in-the-barrel snuffing had become a thorny challenge because of his limits.

He didn't dare try after Dun took that fall and dropped behind a row of scraggly bushes. Another hesitation when he stood up and wobbled. Too easy to screw up. Had there been a miss he'd have seen the bullet's impact against the body of his truck and come hunting. Charon was in no shape for any one-on-one dancing with that dude. A couple years ago, perhaps, when he used to swig down the red fire himself, but not now while he was human-weak, not even with the razor-edged bowie knife he'd purchased that afternoon at a sporting goods chain store. Dammit to hell, but he'd had a clear line of sight right to the bloodsucker's chest. It wouldn't have killed him, but certainly have taken him out long enough to move in and cut his head off. Instead, the son of a bitch had been oh-so-conveniently swept from his feet by . . . what?

There'd been no way to get a good look at it, like trying to see wind, but Charon caught an impression, a shimmering flash of silver light zipping along the ground. There was force to it, enough to pitch old Lance right over. What a look on his face. He'd had no clue that something had done him a favor.

Something powerful.

Charon—minus his eye patch now—squinted, frowning, trying to see what was not normally visible. His Sight was usually pretty good, but he was aware of his blind spots, and the stuff eating him alive from the inside out didn't help. Even if he'd been at two hundred percent it might not have served here. That was the problem with the opposition; most of the time they're invisible until it's too late to dodge them. And, for some reason, they often remained so even to their own people.

Damned cagey flakers.

He sensed plenty of energies in this place, some of it natural interference from the nearby water, but there was a decided protective glow hovering around the house, Dun, and his vehicle. He thought about draining it off the property for a recharge, but better not. Fang-boy might be tuned in enough to notice and call his old lady over to play bloodhound. She'd be able to track quick enough. Better to wait until the jock was toast.

There he goes, driving cluelessly toward Queen Street.

Too late to follow, but from the look of the bag Dun carried, he might be away for a few days. No telling where. Off on one of his little quests, tally-ho and rooty-toot-toot, damn him to Hell. The real one.

Charon emerged stiffly from his makeshift hunting blind in the snow-crusted bushes of a side yard. The other houses along the street were occupied. He'd picked this one for the dark windows and snowdrift drive. The occupants, if they had any sense, were in a place where winter was something you only saw in calendar photos. His shiny new arctic gear had served to keep him from freezing during his stakeout, but now he wanted to get truly warm—

A sudden, intense spasm of pain and a wash of weakness, of gut-twisting nausea, halted him in his tracks. It crashed home hard and went on for several minutes, with him fighting it every inch, until he staggered against the house wall and puked his last meal. Then he moved off and dropped to his knees, panting until the booming in his ears subsided. He was covered with a sweat that raised more of a chill in him than the goddamned weather.

Damn. That was starting up again. He hoped he'd left it behind at Chichén Itzá. Great. He fumbled at a pocket and one of the containers tucked inside. Pulling a glove off with his teeth, he wrestled with the child-proof cap and shook out a pill, swallowing it dry. The bitter taste clung to the back of his throat.

That decided him. It would be safer, better to strike Lance down from cover, but Charon couldn't afford to hang here indefinitely hoping for his return. Time was getting short, and he was losing ground.

He didn't want show his presence, though. No sense letting Dun know who he was dealing with until the last possible moment. With any luck, it would be Dun's last possible moment.

Charon wondered what had become of the witchy girl friend. He kept tabs on his enemies, but sometimes it was impossible to find out the why behind their actions. She'd left her Vancouver hermitage and moved here for some reason. Maybe to do with the Grail or so she and Lancelot could start banging each other regularly again. With her turned human too, she couldn't have many years left for it.

Fine with me. Either way, she was conveniently close to a bullet.

She'd not been at home when he phoned. That had been taking a chance, but he figured she'd not be able to identify him if he hung up just as she said 'hello.' But all day long it'd been the freaking answering machine, so there'd been no reason to go driving up to her wilderness hut to whack her.

If he could arrange things just right, make a feint or, if possible, a solid hit at her from a distance, it would bring Dun in roaring, perfectly primed to be chopped.

Which would take some setting up. Might as well plan it in a nice warm hotel room and give the pill a chance to work.

All was quiet at Bourland's house, except for the ubiquitous television noise. Richard was not immune to watching hours of it himself when the mood was on him, but he never left his own set running just for the sake of having it on.

Not so for Michael, who had taken up residence in the TV room. On his way to the office Richard looked in. His godson was sprawled on one of the long sofas there, his socked feet up on its arm. He stared at the screen as though phased out, but was methodically clicking the remote through the satellite channels several times in a row. He finally settled on a hockey game, but pressed the mute button, watching the players gliding on the ice in a silent, near-hypnotic dance.

"Wanna watch?" he asked, barely glancing up.

"Shortly. I've some things to do first."

"You staying over?"

"Your very kind housekeeper's prepping the guest room now."

"Good."

"Are you all right?"

Michael rolled his eyes, exaggerating. "Between her and you and Dad and my therapist . . . I'm fine."

"Your therapist?"

"Dad called her, and we talked on the phone. I'm fine. It's not like I'm made of glass and gonna break, okay?"

"Okay. Then I won't ask if you've eaten anything."

Michael's head lifted and swiveled his way. "There's this pizza place that delivers late . . ."

Richard delved into his wallet and pulled out money. "Get whatever you want, no caffeine in the soda. Don't forget to tip the driver. He'll expect something decent from this neighborhood."

"Deal!" Michael launched up and rolled over the top of the sofa like a commando, just missing a lamp with one of his feet. He tore off to the kitchen where presumably the pizza number would be magnetically clinging to the refrigerator. Richard's was similarly adorned, for his guests' convenience, when he had any. All the food he kept on hand was for show and usually expired. There was a fifteen-year-old can of peas on one pantry shelf that had to be a biohazard by now. Or a collectable ready for an on-line auction.

He moved on to the office to fire up the computer and when it asked, entered the password Bourland supplied. It opened to the desktop without hitch, which was well, since he'd washed the letters and numbers off in the shower.

The DVD player program was on top. He clicked it awake and once more wondered how in hell it had been able to record Michael's vision. Richard had heard of electronic voice phenomenon, where ghostly voices could be recorded on magnetic tape, but this was several light-years beyond that. The mixing of Otherside powers and Realside technology was very unsettling. Especially when they worked.

However it happened, the images on the disk had not lost their ability to disturb. He played the glimpse into this apparent Otherside hell again and again, freezing it for study, hoping for recognizable clues. He felt out of his depth and missed Sabra desperately.

There was only one other who could help them, and she was the breadth of a continent away in an isolated corner of Vancouver. Certainly she would have sensed this calamity, and might be able to help, to explain the signs, but how to contact her . . . ?

"That's the bad stuff, isn't it?" asked Michael, standing in the doorway.

He was too tired to jump. "Yes. It is."

"Dad wouldn't let me look, but I've already seen them in my head."

"You remember them?"

"Yeah, it's like watching a movie trailer. Real fast, so it blurs, but some pictures stay. Can I look at these?"

Richard debated inwardly. Bourland's hesitation must have been based on trying to protect Michael, but the boy seemed unafraid. "All right."

Coming over, Michael studied the screen, frowning. "What do they mean?"

"I was rather hoping you might have an insight."

He shrugged. "Aunt Sabra was going to tell us."

"Wasn't she helping you interpret dreams for yourself?"

"Yeah, sort of, but this is way farther along than we ever got. The one last night with the pyramid and the snake and the rest . . . but that was a vision, not a dream. It just happened to come when I was sleeping."

"It frightened you?"

He moved off to collapse untidily on the tufted leather couch. Didn't boys sit at all? "Yeah. She'd tell me not to be afraid, though, wouldn't she?"

"I'm sure she would."

"You're not afraid, are you, Uncle Richard?"

"Not of a dream, no."

"But that wasn't a dream. It's something that really happened."

"I think so, yes. But none of it was your doing."

Michael's shrugged, quite a feat, given his horizontal position. "I feel like I could have done something to help, but I didn't. All I did was stand there and watch like everyone else. If I'd known more maybe I could have stopped things, but I kinda thought you were supposed to do something."

"Any idea what that might have been?"

"No. I wish I did."

And be careful what you wish for, he automatically thought. "Did you see anything else? I was rather busy looking at the snake."

"Uh-uh. Just that man and woman fighting and the pyramid and the storm . . ." Michael squirmed around until he sat up. "Aunt Sabra told me that sometimes what I see is like that." He pointed to a small TV stuffed into a bookshelf. "When the news is on and they show a story about something awful, you see it, but there's nothing you can do because it's already happened. It's okay to feel bad, but it's not your fault, and it's not the TV's fault for showing you. It just is. And it's going to go on whether you watch or not. When a tree falls in the woods it does make a noise."

Richard agreed.

"Like what happened to me when I was little. Aunt Sabra always says it's not my fault. You all do."

"We're quite right, too."

"I know." But Michael sighed. "I know it up here"—he mashed a palm against his forehead— "but sometimes not here." He thumped his chest over his heart. "That's when it hurts here, too. She says everything's connected. Is what happened in Texas connected to what happened in the vision?"

The only connection Richard knew was Michael himself, but saw no help to the boy in saying it. "I don't know. We'll ask her when she's better." He said this quite on purpose, looking at Michael for a reaction, conscious or not, in case he knew what was to happen. There was none. Sabra was the one with the Sight, for not only seeing the future, but the possibilities of multiple futures. It was just as well Michael did not possess that particular facet of the Gift.

"Is Aunt Sabra dying?" Michael asked.

Richard smiled. "Of course not." And he hoped to God and Goddess that was true.

The doorbell rang. The chimes of Big Ben, of a lesser volume than the original in London, notified the house of a visitor.

"Pizza!" Michael again launched out. It was as though he had two speeds: complete stop and Mach 1, with nothing in between.

He trailed Michael to the front entry, hanging back to allow the boy freedom to enjoy firsthand the pleasure of participating in the wonders of commerce. Still, he kept an eye out for trouble. Some force had made a try at killing Sabra, there was no reason to think Michael might be immune. Richard thought it most unlikely, though. No visions since this morning. Though they were powerful, the boy was yet a novice, not worthy of notice yet from anyone or anything bad. Sabra was the more dangerous foe on that Side.

Michael swept his steaming prize off to the TV room, laying the flat box out on the coffee table and calling for company to come share before he ate it all. The housekeeper, used to the ritual, disappeared and reappeared with paper plates, a wad of paper napkins, glasses, and a bucket of ice for the soda. She took one slice and announced that if Mr. Dun planned to remain, then she'd prefer to go to her own home if that was all right. Richard said it was perfectly fine, thanked her, and off she went. He was invited to dig into the feast, but begged off, claiming he'd eaten earlier. Which was true.

The TV still played the apparently prerecorded hockey game; Michael set the sound to low so small voices droned in undercurrent to his meal.

"Those commentators are so boring," he said. "I mean, we can see what's going on. Do they think we're blind or something?"

"Sometimes they catch things we miss. The cameras aren't always fast enough to follow the action, but the babble can be annoying."

"That's the word. I wish they'd just shut up and let us hear the crowd instead. It'd be more like being there."

The food, such as it was, heavy on pepperoni, peameal bacon, and God knows what else, served to fill up even Michael's usually bottomless stomach. After finishing nearly the whole thing he fell into a doze.

Richard had stretched out on the other sofa to keep him company and found himself drifting off as well. A stray thought, some idea he was sure he should have come up with before, floated toward him, hanging out of reach. He'd forgotten something. No matter. His mind was good at throwing out the right idea given the chance.

Damn, but his shoulder ached from that fall. No matter. It would mend in a few hours, good as new . . .

Normandy, the Past

Richard cracked his heavy eyelids and stifled a grunt of pain. Someone was doing terrible things to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Lord Richard. I did not mean to wake you." The Holy Sister tending him looked stricken.

"What . . . ?"

"I was just bathing it clean."

"Is the tourney over?"

"Yes, your lordship. Two days now."

Two? "Impossible, I was there only this morning."

"And wounded by that afternoon. We brought you here for healing."

"Wounded?" He dimly recalled besting one of the other champions, then in a fit of spite the man on the ground slammed upward with his blade and got under Richard's armor. No one on that side of the field claimed to have seen the dishonorable blow, of course, they were all angered at losing. Richard recalled cursing him and staggering off, and then two squires rushed over to help him back to his pavilion. He'd bled like a pig at the butcher's, and that's where things went thick as fog. "The reckoning—how did it fall?"

"You are still the Champion d'Orleans, your lordship."

He lay back, relieved, then grunted again at the sudden pain of the movement. How his shoulder throbbed. It was as though the sword blade was still in him. He couldn't see much of the wound, just a little of the stitching from the corner of his eye; it was too much work to twist his head to look. He felt hot all over and even his bones seemed bruised.

With a murmured apology for the hurt she must bring, the Holy Sister continued to bathe his wound as gently as possible. He tried not to let his discomfort show, knowing that she and the other women here had been uncommonly kind to him. They always were when he got injured fighting.

"I've slept two days?" he asked, trying to remember.

"And just as well. You would not have liked what we had to do to stop the bleeding."

From the color of the water in her bucket there was still flow from his wound, unless that was from some other hapless warrior under their care. He seemed to have a room to himself, though. Being a duke's son, albeit the third one, had its advantages, though he knew they would have looked after him well whatever his station.

He was wakeful yet lethargic, and too weak to get up. A page sent from the castle to watch his progress was brought in to hold the slop bucket so he could pass water lying sideways on the bed. Richard went dizzy after that. Someone brought him wine mixed with cold broth, but he could only manage the smallest sip, refusing the rest. His belly wouldn't stand it. The fever in his shoulder seemed to be spreading, and no amount of cool, wet cloths on his brow eased it.

In turns Richard shivered and sweated and cursed and whimpered, but nothing curbed the growing pain. He thought another night passed, but could not be sure. The chamber had but a small window, high up, and no real light came through. He was told it had been raining since the tourney, all the time raining, the summer days gone ominously dark . . .

"Not dead yet?"

He didn't bother to open his eyes, recognizing the comfortless voice of Dear Brother Ambert.

"You, there. You hear me?" Richard felt something prod him in the side. A sword or cudgel, it made no difference; he simply didn't care, giving no protest. Thirst tormented him far more than ever Ambert could. Dear Brother sounded drunk. That was normal.

"Lord Ambert, your brother is sorely stricken and needs your prayers lest he die." A woman's voice. The eldest Sister, who was in charge of the place, no less. She sounded severe and reproving. Wasted on Ambert. He had too much of old Montague in him.

"Heaven will get my prayer of thanks when they put him in the ground and good riddance to him."

A gasp of shock. He liked doing that to people. Fortunately, the Sister was canny enough not to respond. Ambert was not above striking a woman, any woman, who annoyed him. By God if he dared, Richard would rise and kill him, wound or no wound.

"See to it I'm told when he's dead, not dying. Until then keep your damned messengers to yourselves. I've more important things to worry about."

Richard looked in time to see Ambert's departing back. The Sister crossed herself, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry . . ." he whispered. He was ashamed to share blood with the man.

She heard and came over. An older woman, thirty at least, she spared him a kindly smile. "Your brother is not your keeper, it seems."

He tried to nod and smile back, but couldn't manage. His lips were so dry and cracked they hurt.

She dipped her fingers in a cup and dripped water into his mouth until he had enough, then smoothed an oil on the chapping. "There, now. Rest. We will pray for your recovery."

But he gave a sudden shiver from cold and stifled a cry of pain. When the tremor passed he knew her prayers would be for nothing. He'd caught a whiff of his own stink; a foulness was coming from his shoulder. Soon it would spread to his blood and that would be the end of him. He had seen enough men fall to it before; now it was his turn.

Oddly, he felt no panic, no regret. He'd done well in his twenty years, and would always be remembered as the undefeated Champion d'Orleans. Life was harsh and laborious and heaven would be all the better after his earthly sufferings. He'd seen worse deaths. All he had to do was go to sleep and wait. He knew how to do that.

The Sister departed as he sank into slumber.

It was uneasy, though. Fever kept him from fully passing out, which was all he wanted. When he was unconscious, he had no pain, and at this point the agony thundering in time to his beating heart was such that dying promised to be his best and only release. He lay in his sweat and panted and prayed for it to come lift him free of his infected and exhausted body. Slow hours passed, and he thought with relief that things were at last fading away as his chamber got darker.

Then one of the Sisters came in with a candle, making a lie of his expectations. He could not see her face, the soft white mantle covering her head came down almost to her lips. The veil was so delicate it seemed to float with her smallest movement. Perhaps she was one of the great and wealthy ladies who took orders to escape their husbands or who had been sent away by a family not wanting an unmarried female in the house. Each of the women here had her own secret story, but all were made alike by their simple robes. For the most part. Sometimes the robes were of fine weave or the woman carried a cross made of gold not wood.

This Sister wore no cross, but she knelt by him and seemed to pray. She seemed very young, a tiny little bird of a woman, with a voice as gentle as mist. She pulled off the wrappings on his wound and clucked over it. The skin on his arm was hot and tight from the swelling.

"Drink," she whispered, lifting his head.

He didn't think he could, but from the cup she held came the clearest, coldest water he'd ever tasted. There was a hint of crushed flowers in it, as though she'd distilled the air of springtime itself. Finally, at last, his awful thirst eased.

"Your pain is no more," she told him decisively after lifting her veil to look hard at him.

She had the most amazing eyes; their light seeming to sweetly pierce him right to his soul. His pain fled. Even when she poured the water over his hot and festering wound he felt nothing of it. Dimly, he noticed when she produced a knife, heating it in the candle flame. It caused him no alarm, not even when she cut into his corrupted flesh, removed the stitches, and laid her hands on to squeeze out the poison.

As though from a distance he heard himself groan piteously in response, but she told him all was well and painless. He utterly believed her. There seemed to be a glow about her form; his eyes playing tricks perhaps.

It entered Richard's head that he was having a vision of the Holy Mother Herself, though why She would be concerned for him in particular was beyond his ken.

She paused in her work, giving in to a shudder and catching her breath. It was an altogether human reaction, but he could still not shed the impression of an unworldly presence.

Washing the wound again in the cold, cold water, she stitched him back up and lay a fragrant poultice on it, pressing it down firmly against the outraged flesh and holding it hard in place. He should have been screaming, but as she told him, he felt nothing.

"Lady . . ."

"Hush, all is well."

Then she sang to him, very softly so only he could hear. He didn't know the words, but there was no need; he understood them from a place outside his mind. They went straight to his heart, kindling feelings he never knew existed. She soothed him without and lightened him within.

This is how safe and loved a child feels when his mother sings him to sleep.

No one had ever done that for Richard. His mother had died birthing him long ago.

What a lovely, lovely voice this woman had. He wanted to tell her so, tell her quite a lot, but one mustn't say such things to a Sister.

As he began to finally drift away, she leaned close to kiss his brow. "Live and thrive, my Richard," she whispered and turned to leave.

He raised one hand toward her, wanting her to stay. "Wait . . .  please . . ." He forced his eyes open . . .

 . . . and looked on the face of his brother Edward looming over him.

It was no mistake. Strong daylight poured into the room from the high window.

"How, now, Dickon? Are you going to stay with us after all?" Edward gently asked.

"Where is the Holy Sister?"

"Here, Lord Richard."

But the woman who replied was the eldest Sister who had dealt with Ambert. She seemed pleased.

"The other one," he said. "The one who cared for me last night."

She gave him a puzzled smile. "We were here for you, we only."

"The other one," he insisted. "She sang."

She and Edward exchanged a glance, then she left. He found a low stool and sat next to the bed. "You worried everyone, Dickon."

"All but two," he said without bitterness. Ambert had appeared once to sneer, and Montague had simply not come. But for Edward to have traveled so far for a visit . . . Richard was deeply glad of that. "Water . . . please."

Edward dipped a cup into a bucket by a small table. He carefully held Richard's head, tilting the vessel so it would not spill. One would think he tended the sick every day. His hands were so much larger than hers had been . . . but the water was the same.

"Drink, you must try some," said Richard.

Shrugging, he took a sip.

"Is it not good water?"

"Very good."

"Don't you taste it?"

"What?"

"Sweet, like flowers."

Edward made naught of the miracle. "I suppose the Sisters flavor it. They know much of herbs."

"But that one who came, she tended me all night, took away my fever. I must thank her."

"What did she look like?"

As best he could Richard described her and what she'd done, especially how she'd freed him from pain through what should have been the worst torment.

"I've seen none here like that," said Edward. "And they all turned out for my arrival."

They would, since he was a bishop now. As a scion of the d'Orlean's house of course he would rise quickly within the church no matter what, but it didn't hurt that he could also read and write. He was very good at it, too.

"When did you get here?" asked Richard.

"Three days ago they sent for me. I was told that if God was merciful I might arrive in time to deliver the last prayers to speed you to heaven. It would seem He is being most kindly to spare me from the work."

Edward's humor had ever a backward slant, but Richard found he could smile. "I've slept long, then."

"You've barely slept at all, Dickon. I was sitting right here for the better part of two days, you just didn't know it. We kept praying for the fever to leave you. Only last night did it finally break."

"But she was here. She came at sunset and cared for and sang to me for hours."

Edward pursed his lips, looking solemn beyond his years.

Richard, cast about for some other proof besides the water, and touched the poultice. His wound was still tender, but like a bruise, not a raging fire. "She put this on me after cleaning out the rot."

"Ah—yes—well . . ."

"Was it one of the others?" Richard desperately wanted that not to be true.

"Actually, it's a bit of a mystery to us."

"How so?"

"You say this was last night?"

"It must be, for I was like to die from the fever, and she took it away. You said it broke last night."

"There were several of us sitting vigil here then. Through the whole of the night. No Sister tended you in the way that you said. When light came one of them noticed your dressings and stitches were different, and the poultice was in place."

Richard's heart pounded. "What does it mean?"

"That . . . we all must have fallen asleep."

He couldn't believe it. "Everyone?"

"So it would seem. And while we slept, this unknown Sister came and tended you."

"Without waking anybody? How did she get in? The gates are always locked."

Edward spread his hands. "I was here. I saw no such woman. Not here, anyway."

"You know her."

"I can't be certain if she was the same one, but a veiled Sister came to the monastery insisting I hasten to see my wounded brother. I knew there was a tourney on, but Ambert had sent no word that you'd been hurt."

"He wouldn't."

"She arrived at the monastery gate on horseback—a very fine animal it was, too—with no escort. What Sister would travel such a distance alone and that way? And at night in the rain? None that I know. She was as you said: a tiny little bird of a woman, young. I cannot be sure of her voice being beautiful since she was shouting, not singing. Once she gave her message to me, she kicked the animal and took off. Never saw a woman ride a horse so well. Held on like she was part of its own skin then vanished into the darkness."

"But you saw her."

"I saw that woman." Edward liked to be precise. "If both are the same, then yes, she is real."

"How can she not be?"

"Well, you said you thought she might be a vision of the Holy Mother. What if she was? The one here, that is."

Richard deliberated for some while. He was tired, very weak, but his mind had cleared, and his memory was fresh. "No, she could not have been."

"You're so certain?"

"Had she been the Holy Mother, then . . . I would have not felt as I did toward her."

"And how is that?"

Richard frowned. The eldest Sister stood just beyond the doorway, her clasped hands hidden by her robe sleeves, her head respectfully bowed, pretending not to listen. "Closer."

Edward obliged, leaning in.

"I'm speaking to you brother to brother, not brother to bishop."

"Speak on then."

He did, in his lowest voice. "I felt toward her as a man feels toward a woman. If that was the Holy Mother, then . . ."

Edward straightened, smiling. "Yes. Quite blasphemous, I'm sure. So this woman could not have possibly been a Vision. The Holy Mother inspires devotion, but not that kind."

"I'm glad you agree. Very glad." Despite his conviction, Richard had been sincerely worried for a moment. He now felt exceedingly heavy, especially at the eyelids. Couldn't seem to keep them raised for some reason. "Find her, will you? I want to thank . . ."

When he dreamed, he heard her singing.

Despite Edward's official dismissal of the event, or perhaps because of it, the story got out, and seemingly in an instant the puzzling mystery bloomed into a major miracle. Whenever Edward came to visit during the early days of Richard's recovery he brought a new version to tell.

The best was that the Holy Mother had appeared at the altar in the hospice hall in a blaze of light that rivaled the sun. All the warriors who happened to be touched by that glow were immediately healed of their wounds and told to never fight again. This was widely believed despite the fact that many of the men being cared for in the hall remained in their beds, either healing or dying.

"I don't remember that taking place," Richard said, almost chuckling. It hurt to laugh, but he was able to sit up today, and had begun eating more strengthening food than wine and broth. He'd just experimented with bread dipped in warm honey, and it seemed to want to stay down.

"Neither does anyone else, but the villagers are passing it about as fact. I shall have to speak about it at the Sabbath mass. I'll tell them exactly what happened as we know it and let them walk through the hospice to see for themselves. Doubtless they will make a tale of it, but at least I'll have done the right thing."

"You're staying that long?" Edward's visits were rare and usually brief in duration.

"The good Sisters here are expecting it. Mustn't disappoint them. They seem to like hearing me say mass."

"Do you like what you do?" To Richard, his brother's isolated life behind protected walls dealing with spiritual matters was at best, bizarre, and worst, a living hell. He counted himself most fortunate to have escaped such a fate.

"Yes, very much. Of course, it's not nearly as rousing as getting your arm half lopped off in tourney battles, but has its rewards. I'm also a very busy man, so you keep yourself out of trouble from now on. Can't expect me to drop the whole lot and leave just to look in on you every time you're like to die."

"Then I'll to come by and visit you instead. My last winnings included a fine mount."

"I saw him. You've finally got yourself a horse to suit your size. He's not gelded, either. You'd best find a mare sturdy enough to handle him and breed more of the same."

"I plan to."

"Good. I wouldn't count on continuing with tourneys to support you in your old age."

"If I live to see it."

Edward looked at him a moment with an odd, amused expression. "I think of all of us, you're the one who will. The chances are against it with what you do, but I've a feeling—"

"What?" An abrasive voice interrupted him. "Prophesy from the priest? You get above yourself, Brother."

Ambert stood in the doorway, one hand on his sword belt, the other holding a riding whip.

Edward stiffened slightly, then abruptly relaxed. Smiling and kind, he turned. "Hallo, Ambert. Good to see you engaged in charitable works. I've been told the depth of concern you showed to Richard on his sickbed."

"Faugh." Ambert was impervious to sarcasm, even when he wasn't too drunk to understand it. He seemed clear on the meaning today. He swung his attention on Richard. "So—the pup's to live after all."

"Indeed. This evening we hold a special mass of thanksgiving for his recovery. You'll come of course. My son."

The last was proof that Edward still had some devilry in him. There were few other things that set Ambert off than the reminder his younger brother was in a position of power over him. In spiritual matters. Though not a very secure place—for Ambert was loath to pay much mind to the nurturing of his soul—it was sufficient to infuriate him. He turned a dark, murderous eye on Edward, who continued to inoffensively smile. "I'll be there—and see to it you regret the invitation."

"You will behave yourself, Ambert. God's house is no place for drunken riot and disruption."

"Or what, you'll damn me to Hell? I can find a dozen other priests to pray me out again."

Edward stood. "Yes, as a priest I can damn you to Hell, but as your brother I can send you there myself. Don't forget what I used to be before I took orders. It was a rare day when I couldn't best you when I chose, remember?"

Ambert rumbled under his breath, apparently remembering his broken ribs. "You'd fight me in the church?"

"And win. I'd do penance, but it'd be worth it for the story to follow. Lord Ambert d'Orleans, beaten to a pulp before the whole congregation by a lowly monk. Think of the bread your enemies will make of that grain. Before the story gets too far they'll have you being worsted by one of the younger castrati. I think you'd rather not have that put abroad."

Red faced, Ambert lashed out with the riding whip, cutting right at Edward's eyes with the handle, but his brother's arm came up fast, blocking the blow. He got a grip and pulled, twisting, yanking the whip clear. In a second Ambert was on him, and it was pummeling fists and roars as they thrashed about the chamber. Richard watched unmoved and unalarmed from his bed, thinking that it was just as it was when they were growing boys.

With a difference, now.

Edward was not as tall as Ambert, but more robust. The monastic life toughened a man. Ambert's nightly devotions took him to the wine cask, not an altar, and it was clear which was better for the health of one's mortal body. He was soon stretched on his back, puffing greedily for air, while Edward stood over him, rubbing his barked knuckles, looking satisfied.

"I always enjoy your visits, Ambert. You've a way of making the dullest day interesting, but we mustn't overexcite Richard. You should be off now." He hauled Ambert from the floor, and shoved him staggering away. "See you at mass, my son." He slammed the door shut, and put his back against it to prevent a return attack. One of the seams in the front of his robe had parted wide in the set-to, and he noticed. "Dear me. Have to sew that up, won't I?"

Oh, God, it hurt to laugh, yet Richard couldn't help himself. He held his sore shoulder, trying to keep from pulling the stitches. "You are a wicked, wicked man, Brother Bishop."

Edward had better success reining in his humor, dusting his robes and straightening them out. He sighed, wearing a face of dignified long-suffering. "Yes, after each visit home I spend more and more time in the confessional reciting my most recent sins. Ambert makes it too easy for me to wander astray."

"You're not angry, though. You used to get so incensed with him all the time."

"And one time too many." He sighed as he always did for that grim memory, then glanced wryly at Richard. "See, I have grown like a tree, with a much thicker skin than a few years ago. Once one of his axe-blows would have cut me down. Now I feel I could dull the edge, if not shatter it."

"This is what doing God's work has done for you?" Richard felt a small pang of envy for his brother's self-control, his apparent immunity to Ambert.

"In part, along with travel and learning to see the truth about people." He came and sat next to the bed again. "It will do you well to come along with me the next time I make a long journey. You've not seen much of the world yet. There are places behind the horizon you can't begin to imagine."

"When I'm better." Richard wanted to do that. "Just send word. Father will give me leave to go if you ask it."

Edward snorted. "Make that 'request and require as my office demands.' He still has some respect for the Church. It is my title, not me, he listens to for such matters."

"But he does listen."

"There's more to it. My life is no longer hostage to him. I have no more need of his good will for my meat, drink, and bed. Once I took orders his hold over me ceased. He'd never admit it, but he understands that if he is less than civil I will leave him entirely, never to return. His pride won't stand for that. Ours is an ugly give-and-take dance at times, but he does know when to back down, and I know how far not to push him. That's how we're able to get along. You need to do the same for yourself."

"Take orders?"

"If you're called, but in the meantime work to get yourself free of him. Build up your tourney winnings, breed horses and sell them, see to it he never knows what's in your purse. Make yourself independent."

It sounded wonderful, but Richard knew that could never be, and said as much. "I've already sworn fealty. He'll never release me from that. Even if you speak to him, he won't."

"He could change. I did. He might. Ambert, too. Any man can change if—"

"Edward, there are too few good hearts like you and too many of them."

"All right, then here's something more reasonable to think on. Father won't live forever. When he dies, what will happen to you, the Champion d'Orleans, with Ambert as the duke? Life is uncertain, Father could pass ten years from now or in the next hour."

"I've not thought of that."

"You haven't wanted to."

"No, but I expect I can find a place in one of the other households. Far from here, so Ambert can't order them to turn me away. And if worse came to worst . . ." He trailed off, and felt some nonfeverish heat in his face for what he almost said.

Edward grinned and finished for him. "You'd take orders. You in a monastery. There's a laugh. It sits well with me, but you, Dickon?" He shook his head and chuckled.

"I'll find something. I will. It's just hard to work anything out. Ambert's got a sharp eye for what he calls mischief, and that's whatever I do that benefits me. Whenever I get any gold to call my own he sees to it I turn it over to Father. For 'safekeeping' he calls it. I never see any afterward, though."

"Then I think you would be well advised to become more pious than you've been. This wounding of yours can account for the change of manner. Donate your winnings to the Church before Father gets them."

"But I—oh. You'd look after them for me?"

"Of course. Your coinage will be safer in the monastery than your room in the castle with Ambert roaming about. If you've any from this last contest, I can carry it along when I return."

Richard had trouble taking it in. Not so many years ago, he'd have never trusted Edward with any small possession he might have hoarded for his own. Now he was turning his future over to him. And it was all right. He knew in his heart his brother would truly watch out for him. "Thank you."

"Bless you, my son." Edward raised his right hand, making their pact a sacred responsibility, but given and accepted with a fond smile.

Richard laughed, but kept it subdued to spare his shoulder.

Then Edward went serious. "Mark this, Richard: you and Ambert are each dangerous, and in some ways you're both fools, but his words and acts are inspired by fear, yours inspired by honor. That's why you will always be the stronger, and well does he know it. For all that, beware of him."

"I always am."

"I mean especially now, while you are in a weak position." He bent and picked up the fallen whip, giving it to Richard.

He took it with his working hand. The thing was uncommonly heavy, the bulb-shaped end weighted. Pushing aside the leather braiding revealed the dull gray of poured lead. It made a fearsome weapon without looking like one. "You think he—"

"I think nothing. But we both know him well. He may not have come here with the intent to use that on you, but with his temper and you all but helpless . . ."

"One thing leads to another."

"He's a bully, and they ever single out the weak, and this is as weak as I've seen you since before the day you beat him into the mud."

"Even he can't still remember that or hold it against me. Too much wine."

"Can't he? When was the last time he ever forgot an insult, real or fancied? Beware of him, always."

Richard nodded, solemn.

"I'll stay until you're on your feet, that should be enough, though I'm thinking you have a far stronger protection over you than I can provide."

"The Lady?" The thought of her warmed him inside.

"Whether she was real or a dream, she would seem to be looking out for you."

"Were that so, then she might have turned aside the other man's blade and spared me a bleeding in the first place."

"I was told what happened by the squires who saw. It was an evil thing he did. Sometimes good is unable to see what evil is up to, and despite our best efforts terrible things come to pass. She did mend you afterwards, though."

"Saved my life, you mean."

"Indeed. No doubt for some good purpose, so don't waste it. Hm?"

Toronto, the Present

Richard's cell phone trilled, jerking him abruptly from what had been a deep, satisfying sleep. Where the hell was he? Bourland's TV room, the hockey game replaced by a tennis match, the sound low and droning, with Michael on the other couch, twisted around like a pretzel and thoroughly unconscious. Only children ever seemed able to reach that depth of sodden slumber. Memory reasserted itself as Richard noted the late hour on the clock above the television. He hurriedly checked his cell's caller ID. Not Bourland's number, so no problem at the hospital. An unknown in fact. Who'd be phoning him this late?

One way to find out. "Hallo?"

"Mr. Dun?" The voice seemed distant, but was recognizable: the lovely lady who had interviewed him so much earlier that evening.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to wake you. The time zones are the same, but it's still late."

"Not at all. How's Cancún?"

"Not a clue. We've been on the run since landing. We only just got back from the ruins. We're staying in Merida."

The name meant nothing to him; he assumed it was close to their investigation area. "Have you news of Sharon Geary?"

"Sort of. It's not much, but I thought you'd want a report."

Well, he'd primed her for exactly this. "What's going on?"

"Nothing at the moment, we didn't expect to start until tomorrow, but were told there was some ceremony on tonight, so we got fast transportation out to Chichén Itzá to catch it."

"Ceremony?"

"It was a kind of summoning to bring back the spirit of their old god. According to one of the elders here, the god was stolen from them, and their holy man murdered by the thief. That's as much as we could get being outsiders. They wouldn't let us talk to the shaman—I mean—ahkin. He was busy and still new at the job. His old teacher died early this morning. At the airport."

"Died? How?"

"The authorities aren't sure yet. There's some to-do about the body. His people—the ones claiming he was murdered—want him back, but the doctors want to perform an autopsy. What with the world situation they're very hyper about biological weapons, and an old peasant man who's never been more than a mile from his forest village suddenly dying at the airport is suspicious. So far as I can see from a report made at the scene by the ambulance people there was no sign of obvious foul play. The man just collapsed, with bleeding from his nose, eyes, and ears. There are some perfectly normal disorders to account for those symptoms, but combined with other things like your vision, it works out to be odd."

"Why was he at the airport?"

"According to the elder, he was chasing down the thief. He fought with him and lost. But airport security maintains all was quiet, business as usual when it happened. In fact, the only disturbance was him dropping dead."

"Could his people describe this thief?"

"Not in concrete terms. Emotional, yes, but nothing the police could track. If I had to make a guess—and this goes against the scientist in me—I might think he was the one you saw in the vision. Others here—the locals—claimed to have had a similar dream last night."

"Really?" All those other lights. People standing there . . .

"They said they saw a spirit of darkness fighting a spirit of light on top of the god's temple. The darkness threw down the light, but their god rushed in to catch it. That's when he disappeared into a larger darkness, taking the light with him."

"That sounds familiar." The sparse information was full of meaning for him.

"Your story, but in more symbolic terms."

"About the light—if that was Sharon Geary—have they any idea where she is?"

"It's a fuzzy area. We're having translation problems but should have them sorted by tomorrow. We've got a meeting set up with the ahkin if he's rested enough to talk. The ceremony took a lot out of him, though all I saw was him sitting there in front of the Temple of Kukulcan. He might have been doing his version of a spirit walk, and I've heard those can be very exhausting."

"Did it work? The ceremony."

"From everyone's reaction, I don't think so. They all looked disappointed.

"And no word of where Sharon might be?"

"We've started an ordinary inquiry with the police. She took a hotel room, but hasn't been seen since she checked in. They're supposed to go through her things, see if there's any clue of her whereabouts or where she's been. If we're lucky they might let us have a turn in the morning. I'm sorry there's not more."

"I'm sure you're doing your best. You sound all in, though."

"Still in my city clothes and asleep on my feet," she confessed.

"Then get to bed. Thank you for calling."

"My pleasure, Mr. Dun," she warmly assured him, and she sounded wholly sincere.

They rang off. He reflected there was a peril to hypnotizing women, even briefly, even for a purpose other than acquiring nourishment. It made for a hell of a strong connection to him. Fortunately the effect faded with time, but in the interim . . .  well . . . there it was, a one-to-one fan club between them.

Sharon. His mind snapped back to the larger peril for her. The police there had not, apparently, found a body, but then they wouldn't be able to if she'd been pulled into the same place with the great snake god.

Which was where? Richard couldn't begin to speculate, for then he ran though the same futile thoughts and worries and resentments that had tumbled through his mind since the accident. This was when Sabra was needed the most and her Goddess had let that happen? Why? Why her? 

Despair flooded him for a moment. He bowed his head, fighting it.

The Grail, you fool.  

He came up, fully alert, his heart pounding with excitement and hope. Dear God, but he should have thought of it before, first thing in fact, even before exchanging blood. Why had he not? No matter. It had healed her before, it would again. He'd run up to her house, grab it—

The tennis game on the television screen seemed to ripple. It did not look like a normal kind of service disruption, not with those colors. The image twisted and danced, ceasing to be players on a clay court and becoming something . . . else.

He caught his breath and glanced at Michael. There was no outward sign from him of anything being amiss except for the quick darting movements of his eyes beneath their lids. He was dreaming again.

Forms flowed over the screen like fish shadows in a fast-running stream. Bits began to coalesce, hold in place, making blurred letters.

They eventually spelled out "protect."

A frisson of chill went through him. He frowned. What the hell did that mean? "Protect from what? Protect who?" Was this a warning or an instruction?

Eventually: "S 2 prtct her."

Then the screen popped back to normal again, players lobbing a ball over a net and back again. Michael had not stirred, was even snoring softly.

But he was smiling.

It was such a sweet, ingenuous expression, and so unexpected that Richard felt a strange lifting in his heart.

His cell phone trilled.

"Get down here," said Bourland, and his voice was dreadful.

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