Awakenings (35 page)

Cal placed his hands on Seth’s shoulders. He didn’t know himself until he had done it whether he would thrash the young man or something else. Cat and Lelani became tense. Seth looked like he wanted to be punched … to be punished. Cal realized they’d had enough violence recently for a lifetime. He relaxed his grip and slid his hands down to Seth’s upper arms. He looked the boy in the eye, and with a gentle shake said, “You’ve just been promoted.”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

“Let’s go,” Cal said with finality.

CHAPTER 20

HANGING ON IN QUIET DESPERATION

Dorn retired to his bedchamber. Symian would live, but healing his contingent’s wounds had drained him. How much longer could he endure these delays—failures that kept them in this foul world.

The wind whistled along the panes like distant voices beckoning. He pressed his hands to his temple and squeezed to stay the growing pressure in his head.

Hard to think.

Dorn shot a panicked glance around the room. He was alone. At times voices spoke to him in fleeting whispers.

Dorn poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. He gazed at the drained glass, studying it as the clear-violet film sloughed toward the bottom. Dorn ached for a refill, yet his trembling hands betrayed him. He cast the glass aside and took his wine straight from the bottle. The voices on the wind went silent; the pain and pressure subsided until only an ember of it remained—a promise of its return soon enough.

Something had happened to him in transit from Aandor to this place—barely noticeable at first, but growing more serious with time. If he had appropriate resources, he might have discerned the cause of his malady. One thing was certain, he was not getting better. The others seemed unaffected. That fact taunted Dorn—an affront in the face of his superiority over the half-breeds, dog-men, and swamp-dwellers he commanded. Even his heartless minions fared better than him. They could go on forever while his greatness faded away.

Time.

Yes, time was his enemy. If he accomplished his task soon, he could return to Farrenheil triumphant. There the knowledge to cure him of this malady awaited. Lara might even do it; she was a powerful witch, perhaps the most powerful on the continent. But if their task here took too long, he might not be in any condition to recreate the sorceries that brought them to this plane. Even in perfect health, he had concerns about his ability to execute such a transfer. Symian had talent, but Dorn did not trust him with that level of magical knowledge. It was bad enough the troll knew as much about sorcery as he did.

Rushing through that portal back in Aandor, unprepared and ignorant of the magicks being wielded, was a reckless act. The headaches reminded Dorn of this daily. He didn’t realize he’d be separated from his lover, his world, for so long.

Dorn took out the locket and gazed upon Lara’s image. Even despite the headache’s pull, the longing for her would not abate. He was bound to her. It was as though he suffered a second bane alongside the malady. The pressures came at him from all directions.

Find the boy.

He looked around the room again. Still alone. Was it his conscience speaking to him? Had it achieved some ethereal state, offering its disembodied counsel?

It was good counsel. Find the boy, return home a hero, heal what ailed him, and embrace his love again. But he had to tread carefully in this alien place.

Do we?

“What?” Dorn whispered.

Have to tread carefully?

Money kept questions and prying eyes to a minimum, but there were too many laws to transgress. The denizens were coded and catalogued—Social Security numbers; licenses for cars, weapons, the right to work, even to hunt and fish; lists to restrict denizens from flying on airplanes—one minor infraction in this paranoid kingdom could reveal that none of Dorn’s group had any measurable history. His greatness would not save him. Bernie Madoff, Martha Stewart, Michael Jackson; the populace here punished its nobility for mere bagatelles, for following human nature. This truly was a backward place.

“Too many rules,” he responded to an empty room. “Too many eyes and too many rules.”

You are great.

“Too many ways to run afoul of the powers that be. They’ll want my secrets of sorcery!”

Sorcery can subjugate your enemies.

“Too many to fight them all. Can’t find the boy if I’m in the dungeon!” Dorn spat.

The room spun. He didn’t remember how he ended up on the floor. His arms wrapped around himself. He began to rock to and fro.

“My lord?” came Oulfsan’s voice through the door.

“Let me be!” Dorn responded. Was he speaking to his lackey or his inner counselor?

Some secrets are worthier than others. Remember the satchel? The blood you spilled to claim its contents?

Dorn remembered the satchel.

Have you looked in it of late?

Dorn rushed into his bedroom closet and pulled out boxes from various clothiers in the city. He claimed the satchel that had been hidden behind the pile. He had trusted no one with its contents, so the bag had been with him the day he transferred to this world.

Dorn extracted two large scrolls from the satchel. Thick vellum parchments hung heavy over tarnished pewter rods with ornate ends prickly enough to tear careless skin.

He had “borrowed” the scrolls when they sacked the wizards’ compound on the border of Aandor and Nurvenheim at the beginning of the war. He didn’t know whether they had any practical use. No mage was idiot enough to fool around with exponential sorceries. He didn’t even have the elements he needed to fuel such spells. Dorn had intended to study them at his leisure, for academic purposes of course, once returned home from the campaign.

Twelve wax seals fastened each scroll, one for each mage of the Twelve Kingdoms of Aandor. These were the forbidden magicks; the one area every powerful wizard agreed upon regardless of loyalties to various noble patrons. He had begged his uncle’s court mage to let him study the scrolls that resided in Farrenheil. Dorn’s uncle refused to intercede on his behalf. These sorceries scared everyone who knew of them.

Dorn’s history of court mages was sketchy, but based on the seal of Farrenheil, he surmised these spells hadn’t been opened in nearly two hundred years. He was curious about what material such a diverse group of geniuses—wizards whose beliefs, morals, and ethics ran along a wide spectrum—could actually agree on. He broke the seals and opened the first scroll.

There’s much to work with here.

“Yes.”

Power beyond imagining.

If Dorn could decipher the text coda, power to smite all adversaries and bring an end to his stay in this dreadful place. Dorn would no longer tread lightly on this earth; no longer fear to do what had to be done. These magicks were dangerous indeed, but what did he care for the equilibrium between natural forces here so long as Aandor would not be affected. The detective had found the trail. Soon the boy would be dead, if he wasn’t already, and Dorn would be back in Aandor.

“My lord, news from up north,” came Oulfsan’s voice through the door again.

“Come in,” ordered Dorn.

Oulfsan entered.

“Good news or bad?” Dorn asked.

“Both, my lord. Todgarten is en route to us from the portal.”

“Why? He was ordered to patrol those woods—to keep out of sight and guard the portal.”

“His party is dead,” Oulfsan answered. “Lost in a battle with the centaur witch and Aandoran captain. Only Todgarten survived.”

Dorn was agitated. The pressure in his head increased. “Do you know what this means?” he said. “Our forces are cut in half. No more are likely to come through in time to aid us.” Dorn immediately regretted this show of emotion. Anything other than a cool demeanor broadcasted weakness. It was the damn headaches. “I should have that coward’s ugly head on a pike for surviving. He should have fought to the death with his cohorts.”

“Then we would not have the good news.”

“What is it?”

“Todgarten was adamant that I inform you he has one of the canisters you had sent K’ttan Dhourobi to retrieve from the power station. He is heading back here with it.”

Dorn waited a moment to ensure that he had heard correctly. He looked at the scrolls on his bed. They were no longer hypothetical devices. The fuel he desired was on its way.

“Maybe he can keep his head after all,” Dorn said. “Make sure he has all the help he needs to get back here safely.”

Oulfsan left.

Today started the endgame of this whole affair. The dawn of a new era.

Dorn raised a toast to his epiphany and drank heartily from the bottle. The voices in his head, pleased by his reborn commitment, laughed bravely in unison.

CHAPTER 21

EXODUS

Daniel wore his Orioles baseball cap low and eyed the station police just below the horizon of the bill. There was no way to know if they’d be looking for him yet. To most he’d appear like an average teen in jeans and with the ever-present stuffed backpack. No one could see the volcano of his turmoil beneath.

The bus station was almost empty. A few stragglers tried to get on the remaining buses heading out of town; the hour was filled with desperate people. Only one ticket attendant served the Greyhound passengers. Daniel stood in a roped line behind a punked-out girl in fishnet stockings, Doc Martens, leather skirt, and pink hair. Her black mascara was applied thickly, so much so, her blue eyes were luminescent by contrast. She’d popped the eyes out of her teddy-bear backpack and sewn black Xs in their place. A chain of metal rings and bolts festooned her eyebrows and nose. She had a nice butt.

Behind him skulked a college student with massive duffel bags. Around the station, old black men swept and mopped the terminal with perfunctory rhythm. How many runaways had
they
witnessed passing through this nexus in their years? A man, probably homeless, sat, or slept, on the wooden bench near the ticket counters.

Daniel was a killer. This new reality resonated through him like a vibration within a bell. He tried to think of ways to make it all better, but he couldn’t undo it. A joke from a list of Confucius axioms looped in his brain: “Virginity like bubble, one prick, all gone.” His bubble, the one that separated the ocean of chaos and violence from the good student, so fragile, had already dissipated like a raindrop into the sea. Daniel could barely remember a life prior to Clyde’s dying eyes staring up at him.

Out of nowhere, a great pressure filled Daniel’s head. He suddenly became nauseated and gripped the metal rope pole beside him to steady himself. Images forced their way into his head, a stormy night, a large tree, the sensation of being cradled in the arms of a woman wearing a hood. The pole wobbled under his weight, in danger of giving way. The pressure grew. Daniel knew he was about to go down, drawing the attention of everyone in the place. Strong hands grabbed and steadied him. The pressure began to subside. His stomach settled down. The images stopped coming.

“You okay, dude?” the college kid said, releasing Daniel.

“Yeah,” was all Daniel could get out, finding his legs again and trying to catch his breath.

“What was that?”

What the hell was that?
he repeated the question to himself. “I think I ate something bad,” Daniel said.

“Next,” the ticket lady said.

Daniel’s state improved quickly. He let go of the pole and straightened himself. Those strange images haunted him.

“Next!” the woman repeated.

Daniel shuffled up to the counter and steadied himself against it. He had to get out of town. He would worry about the episode later. It was probably just anxiety, he lied to himself. “New York,” he told the woman.

She had a slow methodical way about her. The end of creation couldn’t rush this woman. “Next bus leaves at 11:00
P.M.
That’ll be sixty dollars.”

“Sixty…?” He would need some money for food wherever he ended up.

“Do you want the ticket?”

“Uh…”

“Step aside if you don’t know where you are going, sir.”

“What about Washington?”

“State or the District?”

“D.C.”

“We have a Greyhound bus for twenty-five dollars leaving at 10:20
P.M.
There’s a local express service that starts at 6:30
A.M.
that’s only fifteen dollars—if you want cheap.”

“No, I’ll take the one tonight.”

The ticket lady threw him a knowing glance. How much more obvious could it be that he wanted to be anywhere but here as soon as possible—a teen with no specific destination? A runaway. Daniel would have to find a ride out of Washington, D.C., fast. This woman would rat him out to the cops when they canvassed the station. Only a half hour until his bus left.

He took his ticket and looked for a place to sit. Most of the station was roped off for cleaning. There was a spot on the bench beside the homeless man.

The man’s odor greeted Daniel ten feet from the bench. A scruffy, graying individual, he wore a trench coat that looked reasonably new (considering the stink) and a brimmed hat that looked like it belonged in a black-and-white movie, which the man wore low, covering his eyes. He looked to be sleeping sitting up, probably because the cops would eject him if he laid down.

Daniel sat at the farthest end of the bench from Stinky. A discarded newspaper helped him pass the time: a kidnapped baby in Cleveland was returned to its parents; India and Pakistan had backed down from nuclear annihilation; and Mafia capo Dominic Tagliatore was out on a million dollars’ bail pending his trial for racketeering. He
should get out of town while he has the chance,
Daniel thought. The boy pondered his own options. South America was as good a place as any. He could learn Spanish. He could still go to art school. Life wasn’t over. Not for him, anyway.

Clyde’s dead body flashed in front of Daniel’s eyes. The boy grappled with his new role as a murderer. Through reasonable justification of his actions—turning the events over and over again in his mind—he concocted a list, which included a column of positive ramifications regarding what he had done. Fact: His mother and little sister were better off without Clyde. Fact: With Clyde gone, Daniel would live to see his fourteenth birthday. Fact: The state of Maryland was short one worthless bum on its welfare rolls. Fact: Jessica Conklin wouldn’t have to spread her legs for loser Clyde anymore. Fact … the list lost credibility after its first two particulars. Those reasons would have to carry Daniel’s burden against his cumbersome list of sins.