 
THE CONVERGING

by

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase and additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is dedicated to my wife Louise. Her drive and dedication to its completion often exceeded my own. Without her undying faith in its worth, this story would still be a forgotten collection of dusty pages.

In memory of the four little souls who have gone on: Leo, Merlot, Finster and Gizzy. Time was not kind and your absence is a shadow on my heart. Still, you will be eternally loved and never forgotten.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

No work of this scope is a solitary effort. Again, I would like to thank my wife, Louise, for her tireless devotion to this novel.

I would also like to thank Staci Kentish, who provided the wonderful editorial work on this novel. Whatever luster this novel may possess can be attributed to her.

This novel is a work of fiction. Any similarity between its characters and anyone, living or dead, is both coincidental and unintentional. The town of Semelar, Washington is also fictional. To accommodate the flow of this story, I have taken liberties with the geopolitical realities of Eastern Europe as it existed in the 1800s.

CONTENTS

Part one: Setting the Stage

Prologue

Chapter One: The Arrival

Chapter Two: Nightmares, Dreams and Other Things

Chapter Three: The Dawn of Darkness

Chapter Four: Coming Home

Chapter Five: In the Den of the Witch

Chapter Six: Let Slip the Dogs of War

Chapter Seven: The Cruiser meets the Lady

Chapter Eight: Cynara

Chapter Nine: The Turning

Chapter Ten: Avery Ponders

Chapter Eleven: Ernie sees the Light

Chapter Twelve: News of the World Pt. 1

Chapter Thirteen: David and Elizabeth

Chapter Fourteen: The Heavy Hand of Justice

Chapter Fifteen: Aftermath

Part Two: The Storm

Chapter One: The Holy Man

Chapter One: Time Passes

Chapter Three: News of the World Pt. 2

Chapter Four: Melissa

Chapter Five: The Party (Endgame Gambit)

Chapter Six: Elizabeth and Sin

Chapter Seven: Neghev Strikes

Chapter Eight: The Price of Failure

Chapter Nine: Removing the Veil

Chapter Ten: Above the Law

Chapter Eleven: David and Elizabeth Breaking Ties

Chapter Twelve: Neghev and Mathis

Chapter Thirteen: The Seduction

Chapter Fourteen: Setting the Stage

Part Three: Cynara's Dark Mastery

Chapter One: In the Den of the Witch Pt. 2

Chapter Two: Through the Looking Glass Pt 1

Chapter Three: Through the Looking Glass Pt. 2

Chapter Four: One Comes Back

Epilogue: The Departure

Prologue

"In this creature, we are seeing the true face of evil, unadulterated and free of disguise." The gleam in Jonathon Ashford's eyes shifted in rhythmic, pulsing syncopation as he related his story to David Stillman. The two men sat at a small table at the back of the Brookman Lounge, which was deserted save for themselves and two other adventurous couples. The other couples seemed too preoccupied to notice the two men, despite an intensity which hung about the pair like a glowing corona. Ashford's face was pallid and drawn, yet there was also an animation in his features, one that was totally alien to the normally reserved lawyer. A strange balance of fear and joy worked to shape his expression, casting a spell which held Stillman like a vice.

"Each of us, at one time or another, is confronted with difficult choices, David. Some choices we make with relative ease, others with great pain and deliberation. There are occasions when our actions baffled even ourselves. All of us are confronted with temptation from one source or another, but the basis for temptation is always an internal creation. We are subject to greed, lust, envy and hatred. We breed our own demons like infectious insects. Once born, these insects multiply and feed, undermining the purity of spirit, eventually killing it." Ashford paused to sip his whiskey. As he did, the hand that lifted the glass shook slightly. Outside, the rain broadsided the building furiously, making the patrons glance uneasily toward the bay window which looked out onto Justin Drive. The darkness of the night and the intensity of the storm lent credence to Ashford's monologue. "Many of our misdeeds are fairly vapid, though sometimes horrible," he continued," but in no way, unique. Susceptibility to corruption is an inherent part of human nature. Each of us possesses a measure of 'evil' and 'good' and we are judged by which force exerts the most influence upon our actions. This mix decries the notion of purity of spirit, does it not, David?"

"I suppose it does," Stillman murmured thoughtfully. He could discern the underlying anxiety in the other man's thoughts. Sipping nervously at his beer, he waited for the lawyer to continue.

"I never really believed that actual evil existed, other than in the forms that I've just mentioned. But now, David, I do believe there is an evil beyond the tawdry human variety. This thing is a creature of pure evil. It exists for the purpose of spreading misery and suffering. It's strange, but despite the terrifying aspects of all of this, I find it all rather engrossing...even exhilarating." Ashford gazed off into the middle distance, absorbed in the intrigue of his own suppositions. Stillman noted, with a touch of dismay, the strange new light that gleamed in the older man's eyes. He could sense the intensity of Ashford's new passion...the dangerous allure of the demon's existence excited Ashford. The older man seemed enchanted by the prospect, lost in a world of new possibilities, where all of the old rules would no longer apply. "So you really believe what you have been told by this hunter?"

"Yes, I believe it to be not only possible, but quite probable," Ashford replied evenly. With dawning horror, Stillman saw that not only did Ashford accept the story, he wanted it to be true...somehow needed it to be real. He told Ashford this. Ashford smiled his cryptic new smile and observed," Yes, you may be right. In a way, I hope that what I've been told proves valid. My entire life has been governed by rigid structure. What is the law but a system of unyielding borders and formats? Everything is precise and ordered and thus ultimately, so mundane. We all become so intractable in our beliefs and prejudices that the very thought of something new is frightening. You and I have a rare opportunity to see something new, something totally foreign to our commonly accepted reality. I won't tell you that I am not afraid, but I also feel more alive and vital than I have in years. Confronted by a thing so alien to our nature, we have but two choices: to accept what we see or go mad. I accept this hunter's tale, David. In truth, I even want it to be so. If something so foul can exist, then surely a thing of equal splendor and beauty may also exist."

At that exact moment the power failed with a dramatic flash, plunging the room into sinister shadows. The very air came alive with unseen forces, cavorting and dancing just beyond the limit of vision. A second later, the power came back, banishing these malicious shades with a civilized white light. Visibly unsettled, Ashford continued, but now his strange internal glow had guttered somewhat. David listened to the other man talk, riveted by his words and struck by his unexpected willingness to consider, if not accept, Ashford's contentions.

"This all strikes me as something that was destined to happen. The possibility that destiny was anything more than a writer's tool touched me as absurd... until now. Then again, very little of what I previously believed matters now, does it? Evil is a weak force, David. Though it may be pure in intent, it is weak in structure, feeding off of not only its victims, but ultimately itself. Liken it to a cancer if you will. That is why no evil force has managed to sustain itself for prolonged periods of time throughout history. If not outwardly destroyed, then it is vanquished from within and quite often by the weight of its own corruption. This creature is old and maybe, just maybe, its time has come and gone. Perhaps it is our destiny to bring it down." With these words, he reached across the table and clasped both of Stillman's hands. David noticed how soft they were felt how soft his own were and wondered if hands such as these could shape destiny. Morosely, Stillman doubted if they could.

"What will you do?" he inquired, already knowing how Ashford would respond.

"Go to it, confront it and hopefully defeat it." Resolutely, Ashford stood and walked slowly toward the exit. None of the others in the room noticed his departure, though to David, he seemed to be cloaked in a shroud of electricity. At the door, he turned, smiled slightly, and raised his hand in a way of parting. Jonathon Ashford opened the door and stepped out into the stormy night. David Stillman watched him go, knowing in his heart that he would never see him again; knowing that he had gone to seek validation in the fires of iniquity.

Chapter One: The Arrival

1

In the grand structure of things, very little is conceived on the strength of a single component. For life of any type to exist, it is necessary for several very specific conditions to occur. Even natural phenomena, such as storms, require delicate balances to ensure their occurrence. A tornado is a classic example of this struggle for balance. It requires several meteorological conditions to grant it life. If even one of these conditions is absent, a potentially destructive storm may never exceed a gentle breeze. I now believe that the events which took place in the small Washington town of Semelar fall into this category. It may well be that a converging of forces (or more concisely, a collision of forces) instigated the disaster that nearly destroyed this town ... then again, perhaps not. Of this matter, I will let you be the judge.

2

On September seventh, a two toned brown Oldsmobile moved steadily along Highway twelve, toward the town of Semelar, Washington. Its engine hummed with contained power and efficiency in the morning air. David Stillman eased off the Olds' gas pedal, dropping the speed from 55 to 50. The morning was quite lovely with bright sunshine promising pleasant warmth for later in the day; a happy contrast from the torrential rains that had beleaguered the State for the past several days. Stillman depressed the power window button to allow in the fresh morning air. The stretch of highway this far south of Seattle was virtually deserted and he relished the feeling of isolation that this provided him. He had always loved to travel by car whenever he had the time to do so, detesting the sardine can feeling that commercial transport always gave him. Out here on the open road, he was free to pursue the whimsical meandering of his thoughts without distraction.

Stillman was 27 and had written and published four fairly successful novels in the five years since his graduation from UCLA. ' _Four novels and some fairly good reviews,'_ he thought, as he drank in the beauty of the State woodlands which delineated the highway. _'But this is the one that I really want to work for me. If I can make this work, I can put this obsession with the past behind me.'_ Each of his first four novels had been thematically similar, in that they had been social condition studies. In each of these stories, Stillman created characters that were essentially moral, yet trapped by circumstances and forced to choose between the lesser of two evils just to survive.

"But it's time that I got all of this out of my system and got on to something new," he muttered sourly. Even he could see that he had ridden this topic into the dirt of catharsis and hoped that one final outpouring might permanently silence his restless ghosts. This was his prime reason for returning to Semelar after a seven-year self imposed exile. If he were to exorcise his personal demons, he knew that this was the place to do it. Stillman had grown up in Semelar under circumstances that were less than ideal for any child. He bore the psychological scars of his childhood like millstones and after a seven-year absence, he was returning home to cast these stones aside.

A large green sign, decorated with the state colors and bearing the state flowers, proclaimed;

WELCOME TO THE TOWN OF SEMELAR, WASHINGTON

Population: 45,678

Please preserve our beauty for your next visit

Please do not litter

At that moment, a cold wind swept through the Olds' open window causing Stillman's flesh to rise in a mass of goose bumps and his body to shiver violently. A vivid image exploded in his head with the vehemence of a detonating landmine, 'Run, turn and go now, while you still have a chance. Run!!!' His eyes closed in an involuntary reaction to the pain. When they again opened, the road had vanished. His breathing seized and his face contorted in a mask of shock and terror that might have been comical under other circumstances. His windshield had turned completely red with what appeared to be blood. It flowed upward in a slow viscous stream, spurred on by the head winds. Then in an escalation of the madness, the car was suddenly filled with appalling wails of pain and fear, some low and vibrating, others high and piercing; shrieking upwards, coming to a crescendo at intolerable, nerve shattering pitch. Stillman's hands flew to his ears, trying to mute the tumult. He quickly discovered that the sounds were originating in his mind.

He blinked his eyes, hoping that the hallucination would vanish, but the phantasms only grew more macabre. Now, parts of bodies had begun to rise to the surface of the blood pool. Slowly at first, here a hand, there a severed head, all soaked with blood: parts began to bob to the surface. His mind fastened on the image of some ghastly cannibal stew, goading him to the brink of nausea. The entire surface of the windshield was afloat with the detritus of butchery. Repulsed and terrified, he screamed for the nightmarish vision to stop, his cry thundering off of the interior of the Olds', matching the roar blasting in his own head. He tried to avert his eyes, but they seemed transfixed to the screen, as if his head were being held in place by immensely powerful hands. At the center of the blood pool, bubbles began to percolate, eventually materializing into words. When they finally had resolved themselves, they read: Come unto me and cleanse yourself in my waters.

' _God, gonna crash, gonna hit hard, baby!'_ Stillman thought. He reacted quickly, more out of instinct than thought, releasing the accelerator and wrestling the wheel to the right. For a second it seemed that the car would not respond and would go crashing into the trees, but then it corrected itself, coming to a dead halt scant inches from the edge of the ditch.

It was twenty minutes before Stillman had sufficiently regained enough of his composure to resume his drive toward town. After the vehicle had come to a complete stop, he lowered his head toward the steering wheel and began to shake uncontrollably. _'Holy shit! What was that?'_ he wondered. Like most other college students of his era, Stillman had his obligatory go with hallucinogenic drugs during his years at UCLA. After a string of bad acid trips during his third year at college, he had gladly disentangled himself from the hobby of chemically induced mind expansion.

' _Fuck, was that one of those flashbacks that I've heard all of the 'cid jockeys' talk about_ ,' he wondered, rationalizing the episode must surely be one of the fabled flashbacks. Though this seemed to be a plausible enough explanation, instinct admonished him against drawing trite conclusions. The whole experience seemed to have an air of prophecy about it.

' _Christ, that is_ _crazy. Next I'll be seeing trolls in the trees and hearing banshees in the night.'_ Still, try as he might, Stillman could not allay the impression that the episode had been a moment of augury.

Doing his best to dismiss the whole thing from his mind, he dropped the gearshift into drive and swung the Olds' back onto the asphalt roadway, headed south once more. Ten minutes later, he reached the northern outskirts of Semelar. The north section had always been the Town's suburbia; the residential section which housed what elite a town the size of Semelar might have. The Semelar elite consisted of paper company executives and the usual contingent of doctors, lawyers and the like. Stillman was mildly surprised to find that he still harbored envy toward the people who lived their lives in these houses. As a child, he had spent hours wandering along these neatly maintained streets, admiring the beauty of these houses, with their perfectly groomed lawns and manicured hedges. Upon returning to his own section of town, he would pass the remainder of the day dreaming about the lives that such fortunate people surely must lead. A life free of malodorous smells, crowded housing and worst of all, washed out, embittered people, who tended to solve most of their problems with their fists. Time and experience had shown him that the inhabitants of such houses were beset by problems similar to his own and could be just as miserable, despite the material comforts they had accumulated. However, as a teenager, these impeccably maintained houses stood as edifices of hope for a boy mired in indigence and resignation.

Eventually, the residential district gave way to Nathan Civic Park which was more than one mile in length. The park began on the south extremity of Woodland Heights and ran all the way to the north edge of the Semelar business district. Stillman slowed to a crawl as he absorbed the verdant splendor of the park. He had spent many long, slow afternoons here, playing with other children or just meandering through the well-spaced trees. Nathan Park had provided him with a requiem from the tensions of home. The park and the clean, neat streets of the heights were both a beacon and an inspiration to a boy who had been in desperate need of both. Stillman entered the business district, heading south along Woodcrest Hill, and turned right onto Justin Drive. Again, he was struck by a feeling of déjà vu, mixed with bitter anxiety. _'This is just like it_ _always was,'_ he thought. _'Every time I turned this corner, that feeling of panic would begin to eat_ _at my insides._ ' There had been countless nights when that tiny feeling had grown into a monster of fear which had threatened to rip his small stomach to shreds. The desire to turn and go back the way he had come returned, but this time it was more of a thought than an actual vision and anyway, it was best to just forget what had happened there, back on the road.

Traffic at this point slowed perceptibly because of the Western Pulp and Paper tracks that intersected Justin Drive. The tracks were privately owned by the logging company and were used to receive shipments of logs from the company's cutting operations far to the north. The resulting pulp and paper products were shipped to Seattle along the same tracks. To long time residents of the town, the tracks served a less apparent, but equally tangible function; they separated the haves from the have nots. The area west of the tracks was known as the Lowlands - unofficially, of course. If a member of the town council or municipal chamber of commerce thought that this was common knowledge to outsiders, they might just have had a cerebral hemorrhage. Not that there was any real concern for the area's unfortunate inhabitants (one of the town selectmen had been heard to say, "If the whole damned area would just slide into the bloody Witly Marsh, all of our major problems would be neatly solved.")

The Lowlands was a name given to the area, not only as a derisive reference to its residents, but for the actual fact that it was built on a flood plain of the Witly Marsh. On those few historic occasions when the Witly had over flown its banks, a good portion of the Lowlands stood under four feet of water. All of the residents of Semelar were familiar with Walter Brinter, who had been the town's reigning drunk during the dim, dark Seventies. On a hot, humid night in July of 1978, Brinter had been sleeping off a bender in the Western P and P shipping yard, when a torrential downpour had caused the ancient Witly river dam to spring a leak. The resulting deluge had caused a flood which had, among other things, toppled a pile of logs in the P and P yard. The subsequent landslide had demolished a Western storage shed and the unfortunate Wally Brinter, who had been sleeping in said shed. Brinter had been the only casualty of the flood and several of the more cynical townspeople had praised nature for allowing them to have a new dam built and for ridding them of the town drunk in the process. Much to their chagrin, there had been several aspiring contenders waiting to ascend to his throne.

Stillman descended the hill into the heart of the Lowlands and knew that, despite the wealth that he had acquired since leaving, he had finally come home.

3

Ernie Simms slammed the Silver Surfer comic book onto the counter with a petulant curse. "Goddamn things are getting more fuckin' hard to understand all of the time."

Ernie was the manager of the West End Towers Motel, a position that he had held for the last fifteen years. He liked the job because it paid fairly well, gave him and his good for nothing wife and son free housing and didn't require great expenditures of energy. Just then, the front door gave its customary teeth rattling screech, causing Simms to wince and curse again. A tall, thin man with dark hair had opened the door and stepped inside. He stood in the foyer of the motel gazing about with unconcealed disgust. To say that the lobby was somewhat messy would not have been a terrible injustice to the management. Simms noticed the crisp crease of the man's dress slacks and the expensive cut of his gray sports jacket.

' _Hey, this guy ain't from around here_ _and Christ is he in the wrong place,'_ he guessed. ' _He's looking at the floor as if he had just stepped into an ankle-deep pool of shit.'_ This last analogy made Simms grin with amusement.

"'Scuse me, mister, can I be of some help to you?" Simms inquired. There was something vaguely familiar about the other man, but Ernie just couldn't place what it was.

"Yes," the other man replied, stepping into the lobby and coming over to the registration desk." I believe that you have a reservation for me. The name is David Stillman."

"Stillman, uh. You wouldn't be old Tim Stillman's kid, would ya?"

"Guilty as charged," Stillman responded dryly.

"I kinda figured you looked familiar, but I ain't seen you around these parts in about seven or eight years."

"Well, I've got some business in town and I thought that I would come back and see how the old neighborhood has changed."

"By the looks of the clothes that you're wearing, you've done pretty well at whatever business you've been up to. Makes me sort of wonder why you would want to be comin' back here for." Ernie glanced closely at Stillman, trying to gauge what the other man was about. A vague current of anxiety washed over the old man, but Simms lacked the imagination to question its source. Still, this man seemed like the harbinger of some manner of ill fortune.

"I've had the same thought myself, several times actually. You're Ernest Simms, right?" Stillman asked amicably.

"Yeah, that's me. Plain, old Ernie will do, I guess." Ernie extended a callused right hand and Stillman shook it firmly and vigorously, partially divesting Simms of the notion that all writers were wimps.

"You know, it seems to me that my wife might have mentioned somethin' about you writing books for a livin', is that so?"

"Your wife is as right as rain, Ernie."

Simms was becoming more than just a little excited by the prospect of having a celebrity staying right in his hotel. "You wouldn't be thinkin' about writin' a book here would ya?"

An indecipherable grin spread across Stillman's face and for an instant, it appeared that he might not answer, but then he said, "I think I'm here on a ghost chase, Ernie. Yes, that's exactly what I think I'm here for. Now, about that room..."

"Sorry, Mr. Stillman, coming right up." Simms turned away from the counter and went over to the pegboard to retrieve the proper key. He returned to the desk and handed Stillman a small silver key. It was affixed to a plastic tab with a gold number fifteen on its surface." Your room is the second one from the end of the building. If I was you, I'd make sure that my door was good and locked every time that I stepped out. People around here ain't quite as honest as they should be."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Stillman answered absently, taking the key from Ernie's outstretched hand. He smiled at Simms and turning, walked out of the office. The parking lot was deserted, save for his Olds and a battered Ford Pickup.

' _Strange,'_ he mused, as he made his way back to his vehicle, _'until he had mentioned his name, I had completely forgotten about_ _good old Ernie Simms_.' Back in the not so good old days, Simms and Tim Stillman had been a notorious drinking duo. David recalled innumerable occasions when he had bitterly watched the pair staggering down the street, pissed to the gills drunk, and clinging to each other for support, much to the amusement of everyone who had seen them. He flushed at the recollection and again had the odd feeling of coming disconnected in time. The memory evoked sensations of profound embarrassment and shame, as if the images of the past had magically reappeared, waiting to be given new life by his very presence. "Yes there are ghosts to be hunted here," he murmured. "Hunted, and put to rest, once and for all."

4

**Rome, Italy**. The hand grasping the red manila folder shook perceptibly. Cardinal Umberto Rossi had conditioned himself to conceal his emotions well in the fifteen years that he had been in office at the Vatican. Yet, in those years he had never encountered anything as compelling or as dreadful as the contents of the report before him. He closed his eyes in an effort to collect his thoughts. ' _Could this be legitimate?'_ he wondered. _'Or is it the by product of an_ _over imaginative mind.'_ He closed the red leather bound folder and placed it neatly on a pile of similar folders that occupied his desk. "Can the contents of this report be verified, Giancarlo?"

"The research that our committee has conducted on this matter would suggest that it is at least possible," replied the other man. The man opposite the Cardinal was Bishop Giancarlo Fabrizzi. He had served as an assistant to the older man for the past seven years. In that time, he had never known the Cardinal to be so close to openly losing his equanimity. Considering the delicacy and potentially explosive ramifications of the decision that the Cardinal was about to make, some measure of ambivalence was to be expected.

"And the American, the author of the initial report, is he reliable?" The man whom the Cardinal was referring to was Bishop Edmond Winters.

"Yes Excellency, the Bishop is a most scholarly man, very well respected by his peers, many of whom consider him to be an intellectual giant," the Bishop remarked. "The research material in the remainder of the report was collected, with painstaking efficiency I might add, by our own historical research centre."

"Assuming that the contents of this report are fact, do you then condone the recommendations of the committee?"

The Bishop hesitated, knowing the moral dilemma that this 'recommendation' created. Again, he did not envy the position in which the Cardinal now found himself. "I realize the moral conflict that such a proposal creates, but if we accept the conclusions of this report..." He let the remainder of the thought hang.

"The man recommended in the report would be the most ideal for the task?" The Cardinal asked, finding it difficult to keep the quavering out of his speech. The reality of the decision that he had to make weighed upon him like a granite block.

"We believe that he is, your Excellency."

"But suppose that we are wrong, Giancarlo? What then?"

"Then we will atone for our error on the Day of Judgment."

The Cardinal closely scrutinized his old friend, a man whom he loved and whose judgment he respected. No doubt could be seen on the Bishop's face. The Cardinal picked up his pen and signed the report, authorizing the implementation of its recommendations. Taking a small key from his breast pocket, he unlocked the upper right hand drawer of his desk and removed a small silver box. He placed the box on the desk beside the red folders, and opened the lid. Then, with great care and reverence, he removed the holy seal from the box and affixed it to the document.

He had done this routinely over the course of his years in office, but never with such uncertainty and trepidation. The authorization completed, he handed the document to his assistant, glad to be rid of it. "I will sanction this, Giancarlo, but I leave you with the responsibility of dispatching it and overseeing its implementation. It is imperative that this document is kept an absolute secret. Should such a thing become public the very existence of the Church would be jeopardized."

"I swear to you, Excellency, that discretion will govern my every action." The Bishop stood up and moved around the table to where the Cardinal sat then knelt before him, held his hand and kissed his ring. Then, smiling at his old friend, he turned and strode from the office.

When he was alone, Rossi bowed his head and closed his eyes. _'I am a tired man,_ ' he thought wearily. His love of God had sustained him in the face of many a crisis. He had witnessed much suffering and pain in his 62 years, but none of those experiences had prepared him for the decision he had made today. On this day he had used the seal of the Holy Church of Rome to sanction murder.

5

Thirty six hours later, Air Italy flight 17, inbound from Tel Aviv, landed on runway 16 of the Rome International Airport. One hundred and twenty-six passengers disembarked into a heavy, wind driven rain which had drenched them within seconds. Among these arrivals was a stocky, middle aged man with a rough, chiseled visage that appeared to have been carved from a slab of granite. The man was slightly less than six feet tall with broad shoulders and a distinct fluidity to his movements that hinted at panther-like reflexes. Though his face remained impassive, he often caused strangers to look away quickly when his gaze happened to fall upon them.

The man carried a battered brief case and wore a rather rumpled raincoat that was only partially buttoned against the torrential rain. The man passed through the security system's metal detector and onto the customs inspection station, where he joined a line of tourists waiting to have their passports inspected and stamped. When his turn came to be processed, he produced a passport, which announced him as one Lewis Freedman of New York. After a cursory inspection and the customary stamping, the customs official handed the man his passport and motioned him to proceed to the baggage area. At the counter, he gave the attendant his check and reclaimed his small suitcase. This done, he strolled slowly along the airport terminal's main concourse, apparently perusing the various gift shops and restaurants that lined the concourse like a blight. After five minutes of discreet observation, he spotted the man in a crisp black raincoat shadowing him on the opposite side of the concourse. He stopped at a magazine rack, randomly selected an Italian magazine and began to flip through its pages. Behind him, the man in the black coat had also come to a stop and commenced checking the airport time boards for arrivals and departures. Freedman glanced around the terminals, trying to spot others, but everyone appeared to be moving too quickly to be engaged in any type of surveillance.

Replacing the magazine on the rack, Freedman picked up his case and resumed his meandering stroll toward the exit. The man behind him also began to move forward, but suddenly his target was nowhere to be seen. Alarm swept over his pursuer and he suddenly quickened his pace, thinking that the man had disappeared into one of the many shops. Abandoning the pretext of being a casual browser, the man began hurrying ahead, trying to look in all directions at once. After several minutes, it became rather obvious that his target had somehow eluded him and he stood in the middle of the crowded terminal trying to decide what to do next. Suddenly, his left wrist was gripped with bone crushing force and his arm wrenched up behind him. A sharp object was pressed into the centre of his back. He could feel its point penetrate the fabric of his topcoat until it give way, as did the clothes beneath, and it pressed ever inward until the tip of what he presumed to be a knife dimpled his skin.

"Make any attempt at getting attention and you die, do you understand?" a voice rasped into his ear. It was low and toneless, as if issued from the depth of a glacial valley. The man had no doubt that the possessor of such a voice would not hesitate to make good on his promise.

"Yes, I understand," he stammered, finding it impossible to subjugate the fear that threatened to overwhelm him.

"I have a knife poised to sever your spinal column should you decide to raise any kind of fuss. We are going to walk toward the exit doors and then out into the street. Once outside, we'll walk north until we find a secluded spot where we can talk. You will tell me who you are and why you have been following me. If I sense even a hint of deception, I'll be forced to kill you for my own protection. Now move!"

The two men moved toward the exit, maneuvering through the throng of people, all of whom took no apparent notice of the pair. The captive had to marshal all of his powers of concentration just to make his feet move. Experience had not prepared him for the remorseless killer and the alien menace that he exuded petrified the captive. They passed through the exit doors, out into the night which was growing increasingly bitter. Now cold rains swept across the pavement with a ferocity that could only be inspired by malice. The rain lashed the captive's face, making him flinch and squint his eyes. Once he nearly stumbled, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest, fearing that the man holding him might interpret this as an attempt to escape. But the other merely pulled him upright and continued to move him along the crowded street. Eventually, they came to a narrow alley that ran along the northern edge of the terminal building. The man in the back grasped the shoulder of the other's topcoat and brusquely jerked him into the alley. They proceeded some forty yards into the service lane, stopping at a point where the shadows made it impossible to see them from the street. The first man stood shaking visibly, not knowing what to expect. Abruptly, a tremendous pain flared in his kidneys. The impact of the blow buckled his knees and he pitched forward onto his face. He laid in the centre of the alley, unmoving, and for an instant, the man who called himself Freedman feared that he might be more seriously injured than intended. However, a few seconds later, the downed man began to stir, clutching his back and groaning loudly.

Freedman bent down and turned the man over, then dragged him to the wall of the building, where he propped him against a large wooden crate. He knelt down beside the other man and produced his stiletto from his coat pocket. Gripping the man roughly by the hair, he tilted his head back, exposing his bulging throat. Placing the business end of the weapon against the man's jugular, the needle portion still retracted within the body of the weapon, the assailant growled, "With a press of this button, the needle of this stiletto will spring out directly into your throat; within one minute from that time, you will be dead. If you wish to live, you will tell me what I want to know."

The fear in the other man's eyes was huge and Freedman knew that he would provide him with everything he required. "Please, I'll do what you ask. If you will just reach into the inside pocket of my topcoat, you will find my identification. I swear this will begin to help you understand. Please, do as I ask."

Deciding that the man was effectively cowered, Freedman reached into his pocket and removed a small leather bound folder that he knew to be a passport. He opened the passport folder and peered at the picture within. Then he examined the slightly battered face of the man before him, recognizing them to be one and the same. He quickly read the passport description and stopped, nonplussed by what the document revealed. The document identified the man before him as Roman Catholic Bishop Giancarlo Fabrizzi.

6

A half hour later, the two men sat opposite each other in a suite of the Rome Plaza Towers Hotel. The room's subdued lighting illuminated only a small circle of space about the two men. Bishop Fabrizzi held an ice compress to his left eye, which was badly bruised and beginning to swell. After Freedman had satisfied himself that the other man's identity was authentic, he had assisted Fabrizzi to his feet and guided him to his vehicle which was parked in the airport lot. They had driven in silence to the Plaza Towers, where Freedman was registered as a guest. Though he had been extremely helpful in making the Bishop comfortable, Freedman had not offered an apology for his belligerent behavior. "In my business it is prudent to be cautious," he said. "Failure to detect and neutralize any perceived threat is often fatal."

Again, Fabrizzi shuddered at the imposing strangeness of the other man, wondering how one could suffer existence in a world such as his. Now, as they sat facing each other, the Bishop scrutinized the other man, trying to gauge his character. Though he was usually a good judge of men, he found that he could not divine the essence of Freedman's nature. The man was a fortress whose gates were drawn shut and sealed to the outside world. The muted lighting caused Freedman's face to be lost in shadow, his facial features obscured by the gloom. His eyes, however, regarded the Bishop with cool, patient detachment and Fabrizzi knew that he was capable of murder with the casual efficiency of one crushing a particularly annoying bug.

' _And_ _yet it is a man such as this that we must turn to do our work,_ ' he mused. "Before I tell you why you were summoned here and what I propose, I must confirm one thing," He said, watching the other man intently. "Are you Major Zved Neghev?"

The other man's eyes widened slightly, but he managed to conceal his surprise, despite the immensity of his shock. To the world, save a small few, he was Lewis Freedman, the Jewish American businessman. However, to a select portion of the MOSSAD, the Israeli Secret Service, he was Major Zved Neghev. The fact that a Roman Catholic Bishop could possibly be aware of this was both disconcerting and terrifying. Neghev's alarm grew at a geometric rate. If Fabrizzi knew of his true identity, then surely others must and if they did, then he was dead already, now nothing more than a walking corpse.

' _I've got to keep calm. Think, what could this_ _man possibly want from me?'_ he thought. _'I have to determine the extent of his knowledge and the_ _reason for his summons._ ' He suddenly wished that he was very far away from this place, or even better, that he had never come at all. The pragmatic side of his character realized that evasion was not the solution, for not coming would have done nothing to erase the fact of the other man's knowledge. If he could establish who else possessed this information, and if that circle was small enough, then just maybe they could all be eliminated. His professional calm descended upon him like a veil and his anxiety eased if only a little.

The previous day, Neghev had returned to his apartment, in Haifa, to find a small, plainly wrapped package sitting on his kitchen table. He had thoroughly searched his apartment for signs of theft or disturbance, but had found none. Closer examination of the doors and windows indicated no sign of forced entry. It had then become evident that whoever had placed the package on the kitchen table was a professional leaving no possible clue as to their identity or means of ingress. He pondered this for a moment and had then gone down to the lobby to question the security guard. The man had been unable to recall any inquiries concerning his whereabouts or any deliveries in his name. Freedman was allowed to examine the service register which contained the name, source and destination of all deliveries to and from the building. Perplexed, he had closed the register and handed it to the guard, who stood watching him curiously. Freedman had tried to allay that curiosity by remarking that the package must have been a joke from some of his friends.

Back in the kitchen, he had examined the package without touching it. The address tag stated his assumed name and street number. Years of indoctrination had instilled a strong sense of instinct and a great deal of patience. He resisted the impulse to open the package, instead choosing to sit at the kitchen table and consider its implications. Obviously, whoever had left the package had only its delivery as their objective. Nothing had been taken and nothing had been disturbed, meaning that the intruder had not taken the time to search the locality. The possibility that the package was an instrument of assassination, an explosive perhaps, had occurred to Neghev, but again he dismissed the idea. This method of elimination was much too subtle for most of the fanatics that he dealt with and was not direct enough to suit the style of the more renowned intelligence agencies of the world. Deciding that the package posed no immediate threat, Neghev slowly removed the wrapper. Inside there were three identical and nondescript brown manila envelopes. Neghev opened the first one and drew out a number of American one hundred dollar bills. He had counted fifty of these bills and set them aside. The second envelope contained a round trip ticket for an Air Italy flight from Tel Aviv to Rome, Italy and a hotel registration slip. He laid these beside the pile of bills and then tore open the final envelope. It contained a note, typed in block letters on a single sheet of lined paper. The note read:

**Mr. Lewis Freedman** :

It is our wish to discuss with you a business proposition of the utmost urgency. In the interest of security, it is necessary that you come to us. Enclosed are an airline ticket and a hotel registration ticket dated for tomorrow, as well as 5000 American dollars which has been included as a retainer. Upon your arrival, you are to check into the hotel, where you will be contacted and given complete details of the proposal. Failure to appear will be interpreted as a negative response. In this event you may keep the retainer as a sign of our continued benevolence.

The note was unsigned, but in light of the manner in which it was delivered, this had not surprised Neghev. The Bishop coughed lightly, bringing Neghev out of his reverie. "How could you possibly know my true identity, Bishop?"

Fabrizzi smiled, trying to reassure the other man that his motives were not adversarial, partially compelled by the brutality that the other man had displayed at the airport. "I am constantly amazed by the way that we are perceived by the world. Even the majority of our own clergy view the Vatican as a cloistered Roman Catholic enclave, with an obsolete perspective of world affairs and morals. We are perceived as whimsical spiritualists, lacking the inclination or the practicality to be interested in what goes on in the world. I might have expected a less jaded opinion from you, Major Neghev."

"How so, Bishop?" Neghev asked, genuinely confused.

"You are a Jew, a member of a despised and besieged culture. Yet you realize the need for security and intelligence to protect you from your enemies. Without that hard edge your religion, indeed, your very culture would not survive located where it is. If you chose to play the detached spiritualist, you would soon be obliterated by the hatred that surrounds you. The Roman Catholic Church is a religious entity but it is a political one as well. The concept of separating the two is naive and rather fatuous. Our Church has existed for two thousand years, Major. It has ruled nations and forged policies. It would be foolish to assume that we no longer do. It is true that, due to the changing role of the church in the world, our power is now less vulgar, more subtle, but have no doubt that it still exists." He paused to allow Neghev to absorb this, and then continued, "As anyone with political insight knows, if a leader or an institution wishes to persevere and flourish, that leader must be sharply attuned to tides of affairs flowing around them. Furthermore, that leader must divine which operative forces are forging the paths of change. It is necessary to differentiate between which one is a gust and which one is a prevailing wind. Only then can these forces be harnessed, diverted or destroyed. Only immortals or fools choose to be totally oblivious of the dynamic world about them. We are not fools and we are most definitely survivors."

Neghev felt a certain grudging respect for Fabrizzi, despite himself. It was apparent that the man possessed a formidable intellect. He would have to be handled with great caution. "Your point is well taken, but that still doesn't answer the question of how you came to discover my true identity."

Fabrizzi discerned a thread of disquiet in the Israeli's voice and could almost sympathize with the man. With one simple declaration he had destroyed Neghev's sense of order in the world. His entire life, which he had presumed to be controlled and relatively safe, had been thrown into chaos. "Like your country and religion, the Roman Catholic Church is not without its enemies in every country in the world. Centuries ago, it was decided by the presiding Pope and a group of Cardinals that the Church should establish what could best be described as an information collection service. This plan was conceived and implemented just after the Protestant Reformation. A small number of clergymen, those who demonstrated the desired qualities, were selected for specific tasks. They were sent to all of the major European centers of power to observe and record, in as much detail as possible, the internal workings of the host court. An accent was placed upon intelligence regarding covert activities. The success of this program was astounding and the information that was gathered invaluable. This program was and is the primary reason that the Church has been able to accurately anticipate the fluid shifts of political change."

Neghev found it impossible to disguise his astonishment. The Bishop's revelations were both fascinating and mind boggling. His story was so intriguing that the Israeli momentarily forgot his own peril.

"You mentioned having men with the right qualities. What were these qualities?" he asked, genuinely engrossed in the fascinating revelation of a network which might well rival his own Country's intricate intelligence program.

"Those selected were intelligent and resourceful, but, above all of this, they were zealots. You see, Major, it was necessary to find people who were assiduous in their devotion to the Church and the execution of its will. It might seem like a rather inappropriate view for a Bishop, but we sought men who were able to use the end to justify the means." He considered this for a moment and then amended, "Within very definite limits."

"So I take it that this network still exists?"

"That should be rather obvious considering that you are here. Not only does it exist, but it has grown dramatically. Our reach is far and our penetration deep. We have access to the supposed secret information of every government on earth... including your own."

"Surely, Bishop, you realize the potentially explosive implications of what you've told me. The fact that you are aware of my existence indicates how extensive your information network is." New plans of action rapidly unfolded in Neghev's thoughts, all frantically screaming for attention. Yet one thought stood out among the others, if the MOSSAD could abduct this man and debrief him, it would be the biggest intelligence coupe that Israelis had made in years. Excitedly, he began to assess the viability of such a plan.

"Ah, yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look," the Bishop intoned in a soft, lyrical voice. Neghev reddened visibly, bewildered by the man's ability to divine his thoughts. "Do you think me such a fool, that I would be unable to anticipate your hunger for the knowledge that we possess? Do you not think that I would be able to foresee this and take appropriate precautions to protect myself from your machinations? The Church assembled this information for its own protection and refuses to be drawn into the espionage game. I can assure you that if I were to disappear suddenly, my colleagues would see to it that our entire MOSSAD file would find its way into very hostile hands. The benefit of my information would be lost, as your entire intelligence structure would be compromised and left in exposed shambles. I, personally, sympathize with the plight and struggle of your people. It would sadden me if this became necessary."

"Do you understand that such an action would condemn hundreds of our operatives to death?" Neghev demanded angrily, horrified by the prospect of such a disaster.

"Yes and I am sure that you are aware of the similar effect the exposure of our network would have on the Church. As you can see, continued secrecy on both of our parts would be mutually beneficial." Again the Bishop's tone hardened and he said, "And should you remain unconvinced of the prudence of this, I might remind you of the similar axe that is poised over your own neck." He reached into the left pocket of his jacket and withdrew a red envelope. He then handed this to Neghev. The Major broke the seal and slipped out a single sheet of paper. He scanned the brief quickly, his face reflecting the shock and concern which were threatening to erode his ability to reason. The sheet summarized, with complete unerring detail, his personal and military history, beginning with his birth in Hungary in 1944 and ending with his latest MOSSAD classification. There could be no further doubt about the reach and power of this man, and Neghev realized that he had no option but to comply with whatever was requested of him.

"What is it that you want of me?" he inquired, his voice barely audible.

The Bishop smiled, deriving a cynical delight from the Israeli's discomfort. The paper that Neghev had just read was merely a synopsis of what was in the actual file. The Israeli was a competent, efficient killing machine, unencumbered by emotion or compassion. Fabrizzi was pragmatic enough to accept that brutality was an immutable fact of life in what was a far from perfect world. If Neghev were to be judged for his actions, it would not be by him. "The request that I wish to make is rather delicate and complicated. Please be patient while I try to detail our situation."

"For the past half hour, I've lectured you about the worldly disposition of the modern Catholic Church, irrespective of this, we have never dispensed with our spirituality. We exist to propagate the ideals of God as put forth to us by his son Jesus Christ and his apostles. It is our duty to prepare and fortify the soul of man for its journey into the kingdom of heaven and to combat evil, which is the soul's avowed and defiling enemy. If we fail in this, all of our worldly accomplishments serve little purpose. We must expound the doctrine of love and purity, while struggling to vanquish the forces of Satan that threaten to engulf us all. Do you believe in the existence of metaphysical evil, Major Neghev?"

Neghev was now totally baffled, unable to discern an apparent motive in the other man's summons; especially if that summons was connected to the dealings of the Catholic Church. Surely, he had not gone to such lengths to tell him fairy tales about that overblown demon, Satan. Yet there was an ominous undercurrent to Fabrizzi's patter and Neghev sensed himself being inexorably drawn into something alien and perhaps menacing. In this new world he would have no understanding of the rules and limits. For the first time in his life, the inchoate stirrings of true fear gnawed at his insides. ' _Yes'_ he thought, 'I _believe in evil, priest, but not your fairy tale_ _variety. The evil that I know is a purely human contrivance, but no less vile. You sit there, in your world of smug intellectual theology and proclaim that true evil can be bettered with a few mystical incantations from an ancient book of bedtime stories. The real evils of this world are the ones that we gleefully let loose on each other._ ' A woman in Lebanon cradling her steaming intestines in her hands, stomach slit open from hip to hip by one of the fanatical Antichristian groups that thrive there. He bitterly recalled a small boy in the Golan Heights with half of his head blown off. Neghev remembered happening upon the boy, whose skull had been shattered by a stray mortar shell. He watched his mouth open and close soundlessly for what had seemed like an eternity until, unable to bear any more, he blew what was left of the child's skull to pieces with his service revolver. The child had been no more than five years old. He wanted to shout "Yes I know evil on intimate terms. I know its face and I know its smell and I'm sure that you don't know a fucking thing about it." Instead he confined himself to a simple yes.

"It has always been the duty of every Catholic clergyman to search out and combat the miscreant wherever they may be found. Some pursued this task a little too arduously and caused us some rather lamentable and embarrassing moments. Of course, I'm talking about the inquisition and various other Church sanctioned witch hunts during the dark and middle ages. There were fanatical zealots in the Church who saw demons everywhere and while trying to destroy them, became demons themselves. In an effort to prevent a repeat of these unfortunate aberrations, The Papal commission created what has sarcastically been referred to by its critics as the demon squad. Its main task is to investigate alleged Satanic and supernatural episodes such as cult worship and possession. In nearly two hundred years, this commission has generated literally tons of paper on both subjects. Most of the reports discounted the incidents of occult phenomena as wishful thinking on the part of a few demented Satanists, but a small percentage of the episodes could not be so tritely dismissed. It is with one of these unexplained occurrences that I would like to begin my story."

"In 1826, there existed a small Barony, located several hundred kilometers north of what is now Bucharest, Romania. This territory had been endowed to Emile Saravic, for his part in some obscure regional conflict. Saravic ruled this fief in a very benevolent fashion if one compares him to other such men of his era. He was married to a local beauty called Olga Zarov in 1820, and she bore him two children over the next four years. The first was a boy named Peytor, who had given the Baron great pleasure, in that he had provided him with an obligatory heir. The second child came three years later; a girl named Alasha. The child was a beauty, who closely resembled her mother. The family was respected by the peasants who occupied their lands. During the first seven years of his reign, the area prospered greatly and nearly everyone received some benefit from the Baron's mounting wealth. In late 1826, the Baroness again became pregnant and this is where my story begins. Most of the subsequent information was gathered from the peasants of the village, who were not only uneducated but extremely superstitious. Consequently, it becomes difficult to distinguish fact from fantasy. The Baroness became gravely ill during her pregnancy and it was feared she would not survive the trauma of delivery."

"During this time, conditions in the area began to deteriorate rapidly. A severe drought ravaged the crops and an epidemic of small pox decimated the peasant population. You must understand, Major Neghev, that events such as these, were looked upon with religious trepidation by even the most educated and enlightened people of the era. Rumors abounded that the child growing in Saravic's womb was cursed. These rumors were given further credence when the beloved Baroness died in labour. The Baron, fearing for the life of his wife, had procured the most reputable midwife in the kingdom to oversee the birth. Heavy rains had come to the area a week prior to the birth of the child, and the entire Barony degenerated into a quagmire. Early in the morning of September the 28th, 1826, the Baroness went into labour. Witnesses related that her contractions were excruciatingly painful; the resulting screams becoming too harrowing for many of the castle attendants to endure. When the child finally arrived, and surely this is an embellishment typical of the era and people, it literally ripped and chewed its way out of the womb and into the world. The Baroness began to bleed internally and died a short time after. The midwife later told the local priest that upon seeing her newborn daughter, the Baroness tried to strangle the infant, which was still covered in her blood. The midwife restrained her with great effort and the Baroness began raving, "Kill the demon child, for the love of all that is holy...kill it!" Then she died."

"After the death of his wife, the Baron lapsed into a prolonged lethargy and the state of his affairs suffered as a consequence. It was only after a year that he began to emerge from his depression and resume control over his small empire. Conditions in the area did regain some semblance of normalcy, but never returned to the way they were prior to the death of the Baroness. Saravic had apparently lost the will to do the things that were necessary to re establish the old standard of living. Despite this, the Barony remained relatively prosperous for the next sixteen years, until the summer of 1842. By this time, the children had grown to become young adults, graced with all of the bearings that people of their station required. Peytor was now twenty one and being groomed to assume control over much of his father's affairs. The young man was refined, intelligent and compassionate and a favorite among the peasants, who rejoiced at the prospect of his replacing the Baron, who seemed to have lost all interest in their welfare. The eldest daughter, Alasha, was then eighteen; a cherubic beauty and a keen intellect, which made her a formidable force in her father's house. Had Alasha been alive today, it may well have been she who ascended to power in her father's place, and not Peytor." The Bishop paused, pondering the inequities that women had been forced to endure for so long.

Neghev studied the older man as he drifted into his reverie. The tale was admittedly intriguing, but he could still see no obvious connection between himself and a family of petty aristocrats, from a time nearly two hundred years past. Hoping to be shown some significant point to all of this, he prompted, "And what became of the third child?"

"Ah yes, the girl. By the time of the fateful summer of 1842, she was sixteen years old. The Baron had never remarried after Olga's death, but the girl, Cynara, became the grand passion of his life. She was a tall raven-haired beauty, blessed with the face of a goddess; at least this is the way that she is depicted in her family portrait. I have seen this portrait and it is understandable how a creature such as this would have a beguiling affect on those around her. Her cheekbones were exquisitely carved ridges that endowed her with a look that was totally exotic to the region. Her most unique features, however, were her incredible eyes. They were large and dark brown. So dark, in fact, that they verged on being black. Most striking of all were the irises, which were flecked with spots of gold. Whoever painted this portrait was a true genius. At any rate, the girl completely captivated her father and became his favorite child. However, the castle servants and inhabitants of the village feared and despised the girl; refusing to absolve her of the alleged matricide. Unknown to her father, she terrorized the castle staff, verbally and physically abusing them in whims of dark rage. It was rumored that, in a fit of rage, she had beaten a stable boy to near death with a bullwhip because he had not groomed her favorite black stallion to her satisfaction. None of the castle staff dared to tell the Baron of this because they knew that he was enchanted by the girl and would never believe her capable of such brutality. More than this, the majority believed her to be Satan spawned and feared more drastic reprisals should they carry these accusations to the Baron's ear. Cynara was a beautiful creature, but her temperament was volatile and totally unpredictable. She possessed an astute mind, but was devoid of compassion or sympathy for the plight of those around her. She harbored a special contempt for the peasants, who she viewed as subhuman."

"Toward her brother and sister, she was aloof and uncommunicative. While Peytor and Alasha shared a tremendous love and respect for each other, Cynara chose to remain cold and distant from the pair. Though she never displayed an outward dislike for her siblings, nor did she allow them to get close to her, despite their numerous efforts to do so. After some years of trying to overcome her reticence, the pair had given up the attempt, but never the hope that her icy reserve would thaw. Things might have remained this way except for the whipping incident. Peytor was an ardent horseman and was returning to the stable on a bright June day, when he heard moaning coming from the loft. He dismounted his horse and climbed the ladder to the loft staging. Once there, he was horrified to discover the stable boy lying in a pile of bloody straw, writhing in agony. The boy was one of Peytor's personal favorites and only twelve years old. Now he was barely recognizable, so badly was he beaten. He eased the boy onto his stomach and the sight of his back made Peytor violently ill. There were at least twenty individual lash marks on the boy's back, all bleeding copiously. Peytor descended the ladder and ran into the castle kitchen to find help for the boy. The Baron's chief cook was also a potion maker and he fetched her to attend to the boy. All through the lad's treatment, Peytor tried to question him, but the pain had reduced him to incoherent, babbling repetition. "I did the best that I could. I swear I did." Peytor then assembled the entire kitchen staff and interrogated them at great length, but could get no answers to his questions. Being perceptive, he could tell the staff was not telling him the truth of the matter by the way that they all averted his eyes when he glanced at them. Disgusted, he dismissed them and returned to his quarters in a rare ill humor. When he unlocked the door to his chamber, he discovered a single piece of writing paper just inside the room. It read: If you seek the boy's assailant, look to the golden-eyed witch. Peytor had discounted the accusations at first, but upon second consideration, recalled overhearing two servants complaining about the beatings they had suffered from his sister, Cynara. He had rejected this at the time, for he knew of the peasants' antipathy for the girl was inspired more by superstition than the girl's actions.

Fabrizzi paused for a moment, to take a sip of water. Then he continued. "Now, however, he believed unequivocally in his sister's guilt. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace. Peytor charged out of his quarters and up the east staircase, down the brick and oak corridor and into his sister's sitting room. His outrage at the senseless whipping of the child led him to lose control of his emotions and he stood before Cynara shaking with fury. The girl sat at her writing desk, regarding him with those beautiful eyes. Her face displayed no shock at his sudden and violent appearance. Later, a chambermaid would say that it was almost as if she had been expecting her brother's arrival."

"Cynara, tell me truthfully, did you inflict that abominable beating on the boy?" he had demanded harshly""

"The whelp dressed down my stallion very poorly. I merely provided him with a reminder of his duties," she replied. There was a taunting, provocative edge to her voice, and it was evident that her brother's outrage amused her."

"In God's name, do you think such a thing justifies what you did to that boy?" Peytor retorted, mystified that such a beautiful woman could be capable of such a barbaric act."

"These servants are all derelict in their duty to this household and if you and that sister of ours had your way, they would soon run this place and we would be the servants. That peasant whelp is a worthless reprobate and requires discipline to be of any use to us."

"This was too much for Peytor to tolerate and almost before he realized that he had done it, he drew back his right hand and slapped Cynara across the face as hard as he possibly could. Her head snapped back and she tumbled out of her chair, which overturned on top of her. With the shock of seeing his sister sprawled before him, his anger evaporated like a deflating balloon. He had never struck a woman before and his anger was quickly replaced by shame. As he bent down to assist her to her feet, Cynara leapt at him with her fingers hooked into claws. She drew her left hand down the right side of his face, tearing the skin in three long vertical slashes. Blood welled out of the scratches and began to course down Peytor's face. He stumbled back out of her range, eyes wide, astonished by her fury."

""I'll see you dead for that!" she hissed and advanced toward him again. Realizing that she intended to make good on her threat, he seized her wrists in a vice like grip. Pushing her back against the wall, he cautioned, "If you ever so much as lay a hand on the boy or any of the other servants again, I swear that I will horsewhip you myself," he had said this in a dispassionate voice and there could be no doubt that he was sincere. He released her and stepped back a pace, prepared for another attack. When it became apparent that none was forthcoming, he turned and strode from the room, slamming the chamber door behind him."

"The next few months were fairly calm and in time the dispute between Cynara and Peytor was seemingly forgotten. The girl's behavior improved dramatically and the staff began to view her with a wary tolerance. Three months later, Peytor was dead. Evidently, he had fallen from his horse and plummeted over a seventy foot escarpment. With this, the heir to the Barony was gone, paving the path for the descent into madness. The loss of his son broke the Baron's already frangible spirit. He withdrew into himself and a melancholy world of fantasies and memories. Gradually, it was Alasha who assumed the mantle of leadership, which may rightfully have been hers all along. Her keen intellect combined with a strong sense of compassion made her one of the finest rulers the area had ever seen. The name Alasha Saravic is historically renowned for enlightened and humane leadership in a land historically noted for its particularly brutal repression."

A massive peel of thunder reverberated through the heavens, startling Fabrizzi. He glanced uneasily toward the window and then smiled apologetically at the Israeli. Then he resumed the telling of his tale. "For the average peasant, the economic prosperity and quality of life improved radically in the next eight years during her reign. The woman was revered by everyone within the confines of her small empire."

"But what of this other one...this Cynara? What became of her?" Neghev inquired, though he had already deduced her treacherous role in this operatic drama. The intricacies of subterfuge were things that he understood quite well even if they were clearly being embellished in the telling.

"Though it is one of our greatest virtues, forgiveness can, on rare occasions, have drawbacks of its own. Initially, Alasha was wary of Cynara's professed reform, but after several months of exemplary behavior, she came to accept Cynara's change of heart as genuine. When Peytor was found dead, the girl's grief seemed both devastating and sincere. Cynara went to Alasha and begged for a reconciliation, to which the sister gladly agreed. Over the eight years of her reign, Cynara ingratiated herself into her sister's heart. She, in fact, became her closest friend and confidant. Cynara served as a sounding board for Alasha's reformation concepts."

"During the particularly difficult winter of 1850 the Baron fell gravely ill. His poor mental attitude combined with a naturally weak heart, led to a rapid deterioration that ended in his death, on a cold day in March of that year."

"Was foul play suspected on the part of his daughter?" Neghev interrupted.

"There is no way to really determine this, though, in light of the things to come, it is not such an unimaginable possibility. When a Baron or a Duke died, it was customary to pass the title on to the designated heir. This process was to be ratified and witnessed by a representative of the Monarchy. Alasha had watched her father's decline in a state of deepening misery, praying that he would find the strength to recover, but correctly suspecting that he had lost the will to live. When it became evident that he would not live, she sent a courier to the Royal Palace, requesting the transfer of power procedures be initiated. The Royal Commissioner arrived only three days before the Baron's death. Upon seeing the severity of Saravic's condition, he decided that the change of power procedures be instituted before Saravic lost the capacity to communicate his designated choice of an heir. All members of the local court and clergy believed the transfer to be a mere formality and that Alasha would succeed Emile as the Baroness. You can imagine the absolute shock and bewilderment of all present when the commissioner emerged from Saravic's chamber and decreed Cynara to be the new Baroness of the region."

Outside, the rain intensified its assault on the window pane, pounding out an unfathomable message with monotonous vehemence. Neghev settled deeper into his plush armchair. He was experiencing an odd disconnected sensation that he could only attribute to a sensory overload. Normally, he was preternaturally alert, but now even simple concentration was an arduous task. He started to drift up and away from his own body, but the Bishop's voice snapped him back to awareness. "Even more startling was the commissioner's order that Alasha Saravic be placed under arrest and tried for complicity in her father's attempted murder. Later that night, a courier was dispatched carrying a letter from the commissioner detailing his discovery and his subsequent actions. The letter stated that the Baron had accused his eldest daughter of a heinous campaign of prolonged poisoning in a scheme to usurp his wealth and power. This was confirmed by an unnamed close personal source. Anyone, with even a slight familiarity with history, realizes that the peasantry of a nation was and is a fickle lot. Once the word of the alleged treachery reached the villagers, the cry for swift and brutal retribution became thunderous. All of the social reforms were quickly forgotten as the villagers gathered, screaming for Alasha's head. A day later, the commissioner, on authority from the Monarchy, tried and sentenced Alasha to death by beheading; all within the space of two hours. One week later, the Baroness Cynara Saravic, then twenty three years old, stood before a public assembly and made the following decree:

Though it shall pain me eternally, I must decree that my sister be made to atone for her heinous crime. Only by giving up her own life, may she gain absolution and salvation in the eyes of God."

Around the Bishop's words, Neghev swore he could discern faint traces of an echo, as if another voice whispered in unison. The desire to flee returned, but the Israeli subdued it, though not without great effort. Still, the Bishop continued his monologue, "After the execution, Cynara assembled her new subjects and removed all remnants of her sister's reign. All work sharing and public education programs were abrogated. The peasants, at least those with some perception, must have quivered in abject terror, recalling the dark tales of Cynara's childhood. But, Major, none of them could have suspected, even in their worst nightmares, this woman's capacity for enmity and depravity. For the next twenty years, murder and torture ran rampant in this witch's domain. To keep her peasants docile, children were arbitrarily selected and hung in the village square. After the executions, the bodies would be left to hang there until the fetid smell of rotting flesh permeated everything in the village. It was not uncommon to see carrion birds perched on a swaying corpse, feasting on the putrefying remains."

A slight twitch was the only reaction that Neghev displayed, but inside he was sickened by the savagery of this long dead petty tyrant. "How could such butchery have escaped the notice of the Monarchy?" he asked.

"Actually, that was a rather simple matter. Most peasants were simply terrified and those who were not served as the examples. More than this, the peasants harbored a well developed mistrust of anyone or anything remotely connected to aristocracy. The average peasant had been conditioned to believe that he could expect no compassion from the 'refined' class."

"Then how did the details of her treachery ever come to light?"

"That, in itself, is one of the most bizarre aspects of the entire episode. Six years after Cynara became the Baroness, a man appeared at her Manor. His name was Morgan and he claimed to be a...well a sorcerer. Supposedly, Cynara was intrigued by the supernatural and tolerated his presence. In time, he became a fixture and the two presided over all public executions, watching the proceeding with the icy stoicism of a carrion bird watching its prey going through its final death throes. Under Cynara's direction, he personally oversaw a campaign of systematic cleansing that was both appalling and horrifying. He evidently felt the need to keep a written record of his dubious accomplishments. I have read this diary and it contains accounts of deeds that are ineffably vile. People, or rather animals, such as these two are indictments against humanity. At any rate, this insanity lasted twenty years, until the entire area was set to the torch during a regional conflict. The manor that had housed this beast was totally razed; put to the flame by the invading armies from the west. When the flames had died and the smoke had cleared, not a trace of mad Morgan or his evil sponsor could be found. Two dreadful reminders of their existence were the only legacy that was left behind."

"And what were they, Bishop?"

"The first was the book that I spoke of previously, and the second was a ghastly collection of human skulls. There were literally hundreds, ranging in size from adult to infant. This discovery explained the disappearance of a large portion of the peasant population over the twenty years of Cynara's reign," Fabrizzi concluded.

"What you have described is revolting and despicable, but I fail to see what bearing this could possibly have upon you or I. Chronicles of human sadism are hardly rare," Neghev offered.

"Patience, Neghev. This little excursion through history is only a necessary prologue to the real issue. I suppose what I am about to relate to you could be considered supernatural in nature. Be that as it may, I can guarantee you that it will require a great degree of liberal thinking. I understand it is not easy for a man, such as yourself, to accept some of the things I am about to convey, but please bear with me and keep an open mind. In New York, there lives an American Bishop, who is a historian and an intellectual of the highest caliber. Over the Years, he has published several papers on the sociological and philosophical ramifications of 'evil' in modern history. As an aside to this, he has made a historical study of anti religious and Satanic cults in America and Europe. The summary of each of these studies was sent directly to Rome for review prior to publication." At that precise instant, a screech shattered the silence, startling Fabrizzi. On the window sill, a large black raven had just landed and sat regarding the two men. Its black eyes were cold and inhuman, but the directness of its gaze suggested a resident intelligence. The bird's incisive gaze drew Neghev deeper into the tepid pool of disconnection in which he languished. The bird's seemingly intentional scrutiny struck Neghev as vaguely hostile, even rancorous. Neghev fought the impulse to throw a table lamp at the bird to drive it away.

"Why is it necessary to have Rome's approval prior to publication?" he heard himself ask.

"We are an order, just as your military is an order. As such, we require discipline and control. We do censor certain publications that express views that are contrary to our prescribed doctrine," Fabrizzi explained.

"I see." murmured Neghev, seeing nothing but the outline of the bird and his own reflection overlaid in the glass of his window.

"Seven months ago," Fabrizzi continued, "one of his studies crossed my desk for review. It concerned the dramatic proliferation of satanic cults in the United States since 1975. The specifics of several investigations provided the fabric for the study and it was one of these that caught my eye. The incident occurred in Glen Cove, New York and involved the discovery of a witches' coven and the subsequent suicide of its members. Included in the study was a New York Times article on the subject. I have brought along a copy, which I would like you to read through before I continue." Fabrizzi again reached into his jacket and removed a photocopied sheet. He reached out and handed the sheet to Neghev, who noticed how long and elegant the other man's fingers were. ' _The fingers of a man inclined more to thought than action,'_ he concluded. At the window, the bird began to screech and hop back and forth from one leg to the other in apparent agitation. Neghev grasped the nature of that screech and knew...somehow _knew_ it was a derisive laugh. The wind gusted across the window and the bird vanished as if it had been a specter. Neghev accepted the article, mildly surprised to see that the other man's hand was shaking perceptibly. He slowly unfolded the page and scanned the print there. It required all of his will power to focus his eyes upon the page, but he won the battle and began to read:

Sept.07/75.

Glen Cove, N.Y. The grizzly aftermath of yesterday's discovery of six bodies has led investigators to conclude the six may have committed mass suicide. Lieutenant Joseph Darwin, of the State Police, told the press traces of arsenic were found in the bloodstream of all six bodies. The poison was ingested with a grape drink found in a punch bowl. None of the bodies displayed any sign of physical abuse and this has led the investigators to conclude the six drank the concoction willingly. Near the end of his statement, Darwin revealed that all six whose names are being withheld until family members can be contacted, may have been involved in a satanic cult. He went on to say that state Authorities had been investigating the six in connection with the disappearance of three area children. Despite further questions, Darwin refused to speculate on the possible nature of the group's involvement in the disappearances.

On the bottom portion of the page, a second article provided further details concerning the suicide.

Sept. 10/75.

Glen Cove. N.Y. Appearing haggard and shocked, State Police Lieutenant Joseph Darwin once again stood before a press assembly and related the details of the mass suicide of six Glen Cove residents. Their identities are; Doctor Robert Voortman, his wife Elisa, Leslie Howard, a teacher at Glen Cove High, Beatrice Stinton, also a teacher at Glen Cove High, Peter Aston and James Edwards, both lawyers in the Glen Cove area. It was confirmed all six died through the ingestion of arsenic. Police continue to investigate the affair and expect more evidence to be found when the location of the ritual murders is discovered.

Most shocking of all, was the discovery by police of several human skulls in the basement of the Voortman's home. The coroner, after examination of the skulls, stated that they were the remains of children no older than ten years old. This conclusion was based on the diameter and weight of the skulls. Darwin went on to say that some of the skulls showed signs of mutilation. When asked to elaborate, Darwin stated that some of the skulls had been punctured by sharp objects, which may have been nails or perhaps even drill bits. He went on to say that the bodies of the children have not yet been located, however, police have located tapes of Voortman and the five others involved in a ritualistic slaying of a small, as yet unidentified child. With a trembling voice, Darwin stated that the child had been placed on a table, located in a cement pit, and set aflame. After viewing the tapes several times, he stated that he believed the child to still be alive when the ritualistic fire was set. The coroner concurred with this theory. Police have been unable to determine the location in which this ritual took place. Darwin was asked to speculate on the possibility that the cult had more than six members. He answered that the tape suggests there was at least one other member, but that the person was never seen in the course of the video. He went on to say that the unseen person seemed to be directing the ritual. Dr. Robert Voortman was a resident at the famous Glen Cove Psychiatric facility, which is directed by Doctor Cynara Simonovic. In a short press statement, Dr. Simonovic said that she was shocked and saddened by her colleagues' death. She found his alleged involvement in satanic worship, both incredible and distressing.

Neghev glanced sharply up from the page with a combination of wonder and revulsion in his gray eyes. His life in the military had provided him with the occasion to witness, first hand, the atrocities which humans were capable of inflicting upon each other. Yet, even to him, the notion of burning a small child alive to satisfy some perverse religious ritual was incomprehensible. Most astounding of all, was the name of the Glen Cove Psychiatric Director.

"Surely, you don't think this doctor and the hundred year old, sadistic witch are one and the same person?" he asked, exasperated that a man such as the Bishop would even advance such a vapid suggestion.

"Not only do I think it is true, in my heart I know it is so," Fabrizzi replied with only the slightest hesitation. He hoped to convey a sense of emphatic certitude that he did not, in fact, feel. If he succeeded in appearing to have no doubts, perhaps Neghev would be more inclined to be receptive to his notions. He knew that being willing to consider the possibility was a step down the road toward acceptance. The Bishop saw this as the natural course of true faith. For example, if a man accepted the fact that God could exist, then becoming a man of faith was made that much easier. Conversely, until a man accepts the possibility of a thing or occurrence, nothing beyond this point can be accomplished.

"What rational explanation could there be for what you are suggesting?" Neghev challenged. He had not been sure what to expect, but this had been the farthest thing from his mind.

"Rationality is a subjective concept, Major. What you would call rational, others would consider insane. Consider your own occupation for a moment, and you'll see what I mean. In terms of the world, as it is viewed by the average man, what I have suggested is not rational. Still, I am a man from the world of resurrection and eternal life. Within the parameters of such a world anything is possible."

"Dispense with the theological rhetoric and be practical, man!" The Israeli felt as though he had fallen, head over heels, off a cliff. Each turn presented him with some unimaginable new perspective.

"I'm asking that you consider the concept of otherworldly evil. This creature is a new manifestation of an ancient evil. The temptress is merely a form which it chooses to assume. Why you might ask...because this is the persona most beneficial to its purpose."

"What do you want of me?" Neghev asked in a flinty voice, though he now suspected the reason for the summons.

"For now, I require nothing more than your willingness to listen. I wish for you to consider the implications of what I am saying and dispense with your preconceived notions. Will you try to do this?"

After a lengthy pause, Neghev replied, "Yes I will."

"Good, I truly appreciate this. Tomorrow, I will send a man around to you. He will provide you with a more detailed package of information on this subject. I would like you to examine all of this information thoroughly, from the perspective of metaphysical evil. In two days, I shall contact you again. At this time I will request a service of you. If you agree, I will provide you with the complete details of our needs."

"And if I decline?"

"Then our dealings will be completed and you may return home. I personally assure you that your personal file will be effaced from the record." Neghev was not a man who felt secure in trusting anyone, not even his own countrymen. In this case, however, he saw no viable alternative." I'll do as you wish."

"Thank you, Major, that is all that can be expected of anyone." With this, Fabrizzi rose and walked over to Neghev. He reached down and grasped the Israeli's hand, shaking it firmly. Then he turned and strode towards the door. As the Bishop took hold of the door handle, a clap of thunder resounded through the Holy City. It was accompanied by a bolt of lightening that was so intense it left both men temporarily blinded. When each man recovered his vision, they were immediately drawn towards the window. Sitting there, like a bearer of ill tidings, was the raven. Its body was completely still, making it appear oblivious to the inclement weather around it. Its eyes were locked directly upon the two men. Previously, the creature's eyes had been totally black, but now they were flecked with amber.

"Mark those eyes, Neghev, for they are the eyes of Satan and they are upon us. When next you see them, they will be those of your most deadly adversary and not a mere scavenger." This said, Fabrizzi opened the door and vanished into the hallway, leaving Neghev alone to face the tempest of his thoughts.

Chapter Two: Nightmares, Dreams and Other Things

1

Is there a solid line of demarcation between reality and fantasy or is the difference between dreams and waking experience a meshed fabric through which things may occasionally cross? If the devils that pursue us through our dreams could actually breech the wall of sleep, to continue the chase in the world of daylight, would any man brave the uncertainty of sleep? The horrors of our daily reality often follow us down into the valley of sleep, where they are magnified and distorted by the power of imagination. There is some comfort in the knowledge that we may emerge from the murky depths of a nightmare, safe from the beast lurking below. But what if we were to look back and see a crack nailed, reptilian hand, breaking the surface, reaching back to pull us into the depths forever.

2

The sun beat down on the tortured landscape with such a searing intensity that it threatened to ignite anything unlucky enough to be exposed to its intense gaze. Black smoke billowed through the oven like air and a pervasive smell of putrefying flesh hung over everything, like a putrid shroud. Neghev scrambled to the top of a dune, using both hands and feet to find traction in the loose sand. Just then the desert reverberated with the thunder of artillery and he threw himself over the crest of the dune. Rolling to the bottom, he came to his feet with sand in his hair and ears. After a while, desert sand found its way into everything, leading one to believe that its shifting expanse was alive.

A pitched artillery duel was being fought, in the Neghev desert, but Zved seemed oblivious to this fact. He was totally absorbed in searching for something. He scanned the horizon from left to right and then back again. The thick smoke obscured his field of vision and he was unable to locate what he was looking for. His face was distorted by both frustration and desperation because he could not think of which way to go. He pivoted in place, scanning the horizon in a complete circle. When he reached the end of his turn, he allowed his body to collapse, face first, into the sand. ' _Where are you?_ ' he thought to himself. He had been searching for what seemed like an eternity. He was not sure if it was heat exhaustion, but for some reason, he was unable to remember precisely what he was searching for. He only knew that it was imperative he find it soon or something horrible was going to happen. What or to whom, he did not know.

Weariness seeped through his pores, deep into his bones and he felt certain that he could not find the energy necessary to rise. Another artillery round exploded, snapping the Israeli out of his lethargy. He looked up toward the sky, but was blinded by the intensity of the light. He let his face fall back onto the comforting pillow of hot sand. There was a preternatural keenness to his senses and he could feel the grains of sand scratching against his eyelids. He wanted to burrow into the sand and vanish, but a faint sound caught his attention and again he looked up. After a moment, his eyes adjusted to the harsh light and he discerned a small speck, directly above him.

' _My God, whatever that is, it must be at least a mile in the air,'_ he marveled. He continued to regard the object with fascination, as it plummeted out of the sky at an incredible rate. It seemed to be dropping directly towards him, as if he was its target, but despite this impression, he felt no trepidation. After a short while, the object assumed a recognizable shape and Neghev was not surprised to see that it was a bird. The bird rocketed toward him with extended talons and for a moment he thought that it meant to attack him, but it pulled up and veered off to the right about twenty feet above his head.

The bird began to fly in slow, languorous circles, always keeping Neghev in the centre. The Israeli saw that its eyes were coal black, flecked with spots of amber. The bird hovered for a moment and then flew off towards the northeast. It began to circle back slowly, leading Neghev to believe that the bird had been sent as a beacon, guiding him to where he had to be. He stumbled to his feet and began to follow. The bird traveled in a rough line from southwest to northeast. It meandered slowly along, sometimes flying low, barely skirting the crests of the dunes, other times soaring high above them. It flew and he followed for hours; or so it seemed. After a while the sound of artillery fire began to recede and then fade entirely. Neghev began to tire, his back and legs slowly stiffening and then turning to lead. He realized that he would not reach his destination if he did not come across it soon. Exhaustion was very close to overwhelming him now. He gained the top of a dune and as he began to descend, his legs betrayed him and he pitched forward, rolling to the base of the dune. The raven screeched impatiently and came to land only a few feet from where he had fallen. It began to beat its wings furiously, as if exhorting the Israeli to look up. When he was able to lift his head, he gasped audibly, for the scene before him had taken on a phantasmagorical element. Everything was shifting rapidly; resolving into one image only to dissolve into another. The dunes had flattened out and a collection of black robed figures had materialized as if out of thin air. In their midst, a table took form. It was rimmed with copper tubing, which was perforated at regular intervals. The sight of that table was decidedly sinister and suffused Neghev with a vague dread. Finally, a figure materialized on the table, and Neghev could see that the figure was restrained by shackles on its hands and feet. The figure was that of a small boy. He twisted and turned, pulled and strained, but was unable to extricate himself from his bonds. The boy's eyes found Neghev and he mouthed a plea for help. The eyes were tortured and beseeching. Neghev tried to rise, but he seemed pinned to the sand, as if he were held in place by the foot of a giant. After a moment, the boy turned his head. Neghev had seen that final look of despair upon the boy's face and was filled with immutable grief and rage.

Now the collection of figures began to chant in a low rhythmic harmony. Neghev did not recognize the language, but he instinctively gleaned the sinister gist of the incantation. The pitch and the volume of the chanting seemed to amplify to a level which was painful to Neghev's ears. Then, as if his mind had switched on an internal translator, he began to understand the words of the chant:

Oh Bearer of light, Oh Lord of Darkness, take from us this offering...humble as it may be. Favor us with your guidance so that we may do your will.

Neghev realized that they meant to immolate the child. He felt all of the fury and revulsion which his soul possessed rise up and he screamed' "Stop, you bastards, stop!"

With titanic effort, he lurched to his feet and started to sprint towards the group. But insanity breeds insanity and the faster he ran, the further away the group appeared. For every step he took towards it, the table receded an equal distance. He saw the cultist, at the head of the table, turn his gaze directly upon him and smile. The smile was contemptuous and mocking and Neghev wanted to smash it from the baleful face. The man reached under the table, and with that gesture a hissing sound filled the air. Another of the robed figures produced a welder's sparking device from the folds of his robe. As the others took a few cautionary steps away from the table, the boy's screams became louder and his struggle more frantic. At once, the entire perimeter of the table blossomed into flame. The tongues of fire shot a full three feet into the air and then settled to a level of six inches above the copper tubing. The flames licked at the child's clothing and after a few seconds the leg of his pants caught on fire. Within minutes, his entire body was engulfed by a funeral pyre. The flesh blackened as the flames consumed the fat and muscle, exploding both with audible pops as if it were bacon frying in a skillet. The air was filled with the acrid stench of burning hair. Neghev could feel his stomach doing long, slow barrel rolls, as he stared, with morbid fascination, at the gruesome spectacle before him. Above the sounds of the blaze, he could hear the agonized screams of the child as the fire ravaged his small body. They were high and piercing and so ripe with agony that Neghev wanted to puncture his eardrums just to escape the sound. Instead, he closed his eyes and clamped his hands to his ears. When he reopened them, the people who had conducted the ritual were gone.

A disconcerting silence had descended upon the desert, but Neghev was struck by the distinct impression that a vast audience was watching this nightmare unfold; waiting with interest to see how the situation would resolve itself. He knew there would be no help there as the shades of fortune were impartial observers. The funeral pyre had been extinguished and all that remained of the boy was a ghastly blackened husk. The skin over his rib cage had been consumed to reveal slick lungs and heart. All of his body hair had been burnt away and the resulting smell assailed Neghev's nostrils, making him want to vomit. It occurred to him that he was crying, both from grief and frustration, over his failure to save the boy. When he found the courage, he approached the table. He stopped, gazing down upon the ghastly face, and a low moan escaped his lips. Abruptly, the boy's eyes popped open and looked directly into Neghev's. They were vivid blue in contrast to the grisly, blackened face around them. Then its right hand reached out and gripped Neghev's wrist with surprising efficacy. Neghev screamed in revulsion and tried to pull away, but was unable to do so.

"Why didn't you save me?" There was such hatred in its voice that the Israeli shivered. Its left hand shot out and gripped Neghev by the throat. Then, with an audible groan of ruined tendons, the hand began to squeeze. Almost instantly, Neghev's overtaxed body started to lose its fragile hold upon consciousness. Frantically, he pummeled the thing about the head and shoulders with his fists. Charred flesh tore from the skull and yellowish fluid oozed from the areas where Neghev's fists had made contact. Finally, its grip relented and Neghev fell backwards onto the sand. He executed a clumsy back roll and staggered to his feet; then scrambled out of range. The phantom swung its legs over the side of the table and lowered itself onto the desert sand.

"Look, you've killed me. Look at me, Jew!" it rasped. A glut of blood spewed out of its mouth and seeped into the gap between its ribs and into the ruined chest cavity below. Neghev stared in gape jawed horror as its heart began to beat again. It came shambling towards him and he did something he had never before done...he ran. Slowly at first, and then in a full sprint, he raced away from the burnt offering, fleeing across the scorching desert sand.

As a man named Neghev tossed fitfully in his bed, a large raven sat perched upon his window sill. It gazed directly at him, regarding him with inscrutable black and gold eyes. The bird penetrated the man's veil of sleep and cawed disdainfully as he fled before his ghostly pursuer over the endless desert of his night world.

3

In September, the first forerunners of fall swept into Semelar in the form of incessant rain. On the day of September the twelfth, the day the horror began in earnest, a light drizzle swept over the town from dusk to dawn. The high level of precipitation is a major contributing factor to Semelar's primary source of income as this climate is conducive to the rapid growth of the regional forests. Conversely, the prevailing rain throws a pall over the spirits of everyone who lives there.

At ten o'clock that night, the day long drizzle finally relented, leaving the streets rain drenched and the air damp and cool. Eleven year old Jeffery Cooper sat nestled in the cushions of his room's bay window. He gazed down on his street with an expression of wistful longing because he had been in prison all day long; prison for Jeffery being the family house. His mother and father had gone to visit the Ellermans earlier in the evening, leaving him alone with his ditz of an older sister. Before leaving, they had taken him into the living room and had sat him before them on the sofa. "Jeff, do you promise to be a good boy and listen to your sister?" his mother had demanded in grave tones reserved for the foulest of miscreants.

Yes, he had promised and had honestly meant it, because Jeffery was basically a good boy. Still, there were times when he managed to land himself into trouble without even realizing he was doing it. He remembered the time when he had been just four and decided to play hide and seek from mommy. He went down into the basement in search of the perfect spot and came across a large white Kenmore freezer. A notion bloomed in his fertile mind, declaring the appliance to be an ideal hiding spot. He climbed into the abandoned freezer and called out to his mother. The lid was heavy and when he tried to close it, he lost control and it came down heavily upon the top of his head, knocking him unconscious. He fell back into the interior as the lid bounced off his skull with a muffled crash. When his mother came down into the basement, she was unable to locate the boy. Only the discarded drop cloth, which the boy had fortunately thrown to the floor, gave any indication of where he might be. There were a couple of tense moments when she was unable to open the lid, but at last she managed to pry it open only to find Jeffrey unconscious. He was taken to the hospital and survived the misadventure without permanent side effects. Jeffery was then lectured at regular intervals for the next two weeks and the basement of the Cooper household was forever after locked.

There had been similar, less dramatic incidents over the next seven years. Now, as an eleven year old, he sat thinking about how nice it would be to just slip out into the night. He would prowl around, for a while and be back home in bed before anyone knew that he was gone. His selective memory shielded him from the recollection of the trouble other such escapades had caused him. He released the lock catch upon his window, and slid it up. In the next room he could hear his sister listening to one of her metal albums. Black Sabbath was grinding out 'Lady Evil'.

He ducked through the window and put one foot onto the trellis. He swung the other foot out onto the wooden cross piece and began to descend. In his mind, he could see himself as James Bond, moving stealthily through a night inhabited by the nefarious minions of Gold Finger. He wasn't exactly sure what a nefarious minion was, but he was sure it wouldn't be anything to mess with.

He ran hunched over, scurrying along the hedge and out into the street. Once on the sidewalk, he sprinted along Emery Street towards the park. Crossing the deserted roadway into the trees, Jeffery glanced back to insure that he had not been followed. As he sprinted deeper into the wooded portion of the park, his foot got caught up in an exposed root and sent him hurtling forward onto his face. He hit the ground with a tremendous jolt, knocking the air out of his lungs. Gasping, he rolled onto his back and stared blearily up at the sky. Jeffery may have been mischievous, but he was in no way insipid; rather, he was exceptionally perceptive. After listening for a moment, he discerned that the park was abnormally quiet. Not a person, bird or animal stirred and this struck him as rather peculiar. Still, he rose and ventured deeper into the heart of the park. Suddenly, he heard the sharp snapping of a dry branch somewhere off to his left. A second later, something rushed past his face, so close that he could feel the breeze rustle the hair on his forehead. This caused him to issue a startled cry of surprise and the first seeds of panic germinated deep in the pit of his stomach. When he looked up, he saw a large bird sail through the moonlight and land in a tree branch, some thirty feet in front of him. Vexed that the bird had startled him, Jeffery found a branch and, taking a few steps for better leverage, hurled it at the bird.

"Take that, you pecker head!" he growled, trying to conquer his trepidation. The branch missed the bird by at least three feet, but still Jeffery expected it to fly off. When it did not, he stopped and scrutinized the bird as closely as the darkness would allow. It sat there as impassive as a piece of statuary, staring straight at him. He could see that its eyes were flecked with gold. He began to back away and it was then that he first heard the faint rumbling gathering beneath his feet. It seemed to be coming from a great distance, leaving him with the distinct impression that it was converging upon him as if he was a bowling pin. He turned and fled, but in his panic lost his orientation and ran straight into a tree. There was a sharp crack and the pain in his nose informed him that he had just broken it. Almost immediately, his throat and mouth filled with blood. The rumble escalated to a deafening roar and then, almost as quickly as it had begun, was gone. Only an expectant silence remained. Spitting out blood, Jeffery rose to his feet but lost his balance and toppled onto his back.

Now, whatever resemblance he had felt to James Bond evaporated, replaced by unadulterated terror. He knew that he was in trouble, but he thought that he might be able to get himself out of it, if he could only find his way home. Again a branch snapped off to his left, then his right and finally behind him; all sounding in rapid succession. The bird swept down upon him and this time it grazed his cheek. Four small rivulets of blood coursed down his face and dripped onto his crimson stained shirt. Once again, he sagged to his knees and his tears started to flow, intermingling with the blood on his face. He was in close proximity to gibbering panic now and when he glanced back toward the park entrance the lights seemed impossibly distant. The snapping sounds came once more and when raised his head, three figures were converging upon him. The three looked like derelicts; each with unshaven faces and matted hair that loomed out of dirty rags. The most bizarre aspect of their appearance was the luminous glow that surrounded the group.

"Look at what we have here," the first one croaked.

"A little boy and a nice juicy one by the looks of him," the second giggled.

"I say we roast his plump little cock." said the last, causing Jeffery to wince. He suddenly understood the seriousness of his predicament. These were the perverts that his mother and father had always warned him about. On they came, but still the boy could not compel his feet to move. The pain in his face was enormous, the cool night air causing his broken nose to ache like a rotting tooth. He began to cry for help, but the three just laughed and kept on coming. The smell of something long dead filtered through his blood caked nostrils and it was this that finally got him moving. He leapt to his feet and fled deeper into the heart of the park...deeper into the heart of the darkness.

"No, little boy, come back and play awhile!" the nearest one howled in dismay. Jeffery, however, was up and running, his legs pumping like pistons. It was then that he first spotted the golden light. Something about the light was odd and after a moment, it occurred to him that it was floating above the grass and had no source of origin. The magnitude intensified, as if some invisible hand were turning up a concealed dimmer switch. Then Jeffery gasped, not out of fear, but rather out of pure wonder. A woman had stepped out of the darkness and into the circle of light. Her sheer beauty quelled the flood waters of panic and fear which threatened to overwhelm the boy. The woman had raven black hair and coal black eyes that were flecked with amber. She was tall and marvelously proportioned. Her body was clad in a dress of black satin, which had been contoured to fit her form in a most complimentary way. Something about her intimated safety, intimated shelter. Jeffery felt his fear fall away from him like a millstone.

"Jeffery, don't be afraid. I've come to help you," she said in a lilting, soothing voice. Then she smiled. It was a smile of such radiance and splendor, that the boy ran to her without hesitation. He could still hear the snapping of branches behind him, but they had lost the power to frighten him. When he glanced down, he noticed that she was hovering eight inches off the ground, but even this did not disturb him. He ran to her and she swept him up in arms that were surprisingly strong and muscular. She then pressed his face protectively into her breast. It was firm and warm, its lushness suffusing Jeffery with a feeling of invulnerability and well-being.

"Please, they're after me," he whimpered. Twisting in her arms, he saw that the three had emerged into the circle of golden light. They stood rock still, regarding the two with cold, dead eyes. The beautiful woman's eyes hardened and the muscles in her body tightening like a coiled spring. She spoke to the three in a language that Jeffery did not understand. There was a tone of incontestable authority in her voice. The three hesitated, looking at one another uneasily. She repeated herself, this time with more vehemence, giving her voice a more ominous edge. At this, the three shimmered, grew dimmer and then disappeared. Jeffery looked at the woman with open awe and admiration, asking, "Who are you?"

"I am your guardian angel, Jeffery, and no one is going to hurt you. You are safe with me, I promise." She kissed his cheek, the touch annealing the throbbing ache of his broken nose.

"Would you like me to take you home?" she asked, smiling her smile of blinding magnitude.

"Yes, please." Jeffery replied shyly. His voice was small and timid...one he barely recognized to be his own. She turned and cradling him in her arms, began to walk (float) deeper into the park.

"But my home is that way." he said, questioningly.

"I am taking you to your real home, Jeffery," she replied and kissed him again. Her kiss was comforting and inspired such a complete sense of reassurance that he closed his eyes and nestled his face deeper into her breasts, luxuriating in the warmth he felt there. She carried him into the heart of the darkness with the golden glow lighting the way. The horror had begun.

4

At about the same time Jeffery Cooper met his guardian angel, Elizabeth Simpson was engrossed in her latest interior design project. She had been commissioned to redecorate the Mason house on Layton Road. It was imperative that she come up with a suitably inspired and creative design to impress the old bat. This last thought made her smile.

Beneath Emily Mason's crusty exterior, Elizabeth knew there lurked an even crustier soul; but her retainer had been most substantial and Elizabeth regarded the entire undertaking as a heaven sent opportunity. Elizabeth Simpson was twenty six, artistically inclined and extremely beautiful. She had long been regarded as the most attractive woman in Semelar and though a woman who possessed such beauty had little incentive to develop any other facet of their personality or ability, a failed marriage had taught her the value of independence and self sufficiency. Elizabeth was above all else, governed by passion. She had always found it difficult to give only portions of herself, instead of her total commitment. In her entire life, she had loved only two men. The first had been the grand passion of her young life and the second had been her ex-husband, Dan.

As she sat at her drafting table, the tube lighting of her fluorescent lamp illuminated the floor plan of the Mason house. The thought of its brooding, oppressive interior made Elizabeth frown. Infusing the dreary halls with some much needed gaiety was proving to be a daunting task. Even as she grappled with the complexities of color schemes and materials, her mind was whirling away on another tangent. She had been married at twenty-one and it would not be inaccurate to say that Dan had caught her on the rebound. At the time, she had been young and naive enough to believe that a love relationship was the single most important thing in a woman's life. Two years and one acrimonious divorce and custody battle later, she had left the marriage thoroughly disillusioned. It had not taken her long to realize that Daniel Wells was a shallow, vain person, whose greatest concern was and always would be, for himself. During the final months of disastrous matrimony, he had frequently told her that he had married her only for her looks, drawn to trophy value that possession of such 'a looker' would confer upon him.

She had returned to single life with a fairly bleak future and in the months that followed the break up, she had heard the whispers and seen the looks of pity from the other Semelar residents. Clearly, they had expected her to fall to pieces. At times, she suspected that they would have been pleased if she had done precisely that. Yet, behind the physical pulchritude, there lay a core of solid determination and mental toughness. Dan had left her with an adorable son, Nathaniel, and it had been her love for him that provided her with the fortitude to build a new life for them both. She had always had a penchant for interior decorating and design, so it was not surprising when she selected this to be her springboard to a better, happier life. Elizabeth had spent the next two years attending community college by day and working at Chuck's Wagon Cafe by night. The most trying periods of this time were her lengthy separations from her son, but she had vowed she would never leave him for more than a few hours once she had obtained her diploma. Last year, with a meager three thousand dollars to her name, Elizabeth opened Semelar's first interior decorating and design agency. Her unique perspective and natural flare for color associations ensured her of a lucrative career and God, how the money rolled in. In its first year, her small business grossed more than one hundred and twenty thousand dollars in contracts in a few scant months. If the Mason commission was a success, she would be guaranteed even greater profits next year. This had allowed her to purchase a modest bungalow, with a den which doubled as her office. In just one year she had not only sown the seeds for a prosperous business and achieved a certain degree of security for herself and her son, she had also put the specters and the pitying eyes behind her.

Elizabeth had managed to subdue most of her ghosts, yet there was one lingering shade that would not be put to rest...David Stillman. She had fallen in love with him at the age of sixteen and now, ten years later, she was still unable to completely efface that emotional need. If he haunted her, however, it was a gentle and bittersweet haunting. He had left her to pursue his ambitions when she was only twenty years old. His leaving had come as a total shock and the pain it had aroused came flooding back to her now, as if he had left only yesterday. Elizabeth set her mechanical pencil aside, closed her eyes and let her head rest in the cradle of her hands. The hands were smooth, thinly boned and delicate. They were a microcosm of her beauty and grace.

Whenever she allowed herself to dwell on memories of David, Elizabeth was transported through time by her mind's magic. She met him in high school when she was sixteen and he was seventeen. Over a period of time, she became aware of his shy, furtive scrutiny. Though she had grown accustomed to such behavior, Elizabeth sensed that his tentative glances were different from the lustful leering of the high school wolves. He seemed to be innocent, inhibited by a virtually reclusive shyness. One day, in the school cafeteria, she noticed him watching her, when he though that she wasn't looking. She turned directly towards him and unleashed her most radiant smile. His reaction had been so comical that even now its memory made her laugh out loud. His eyes popped open and his mouth dropped almost to his chest. Finally, he turned scarlet red, averted his eyes and never looked up for the remainder of the lunch period. When the school day was over, she decided to seek him out. Concealing herself behind a bank of lockers until he came into view, she sprang out and brayed, "Hello David!"

Elizabeth had been pleasantly surprised to discover that behind his shy exterior, he possessed a sensitive, subtly humorous personality. He found amusement in simple things that most people of his age would have taken for granted. She quickly grew to admire and respect him and he in turn, viewed her with unmitigated adoration. Over the next four years, they grew closer and for Elizabeth, marriage seemed inevitable. Then, like clear air turbulence that is unseen yet so disruptive and potentially lethal, it was over and he was gone. In the space of six days her entire life had disintegrated into pieces. In retrospect, she supposed she should have anticipated his leaving, but very often people in love have a tendency to ignore anything that might dampen the fires. It had been seven months of steady dating before he had taken her home and only then after she had vehemently insisted that he do so. Every night he would ride home with her, on the bus, and then walk back to the Lowlands. She had been told, by one of her friends, that he lived in Semelar's wastelands and this explained his reluctance to show her his home. Her friends were also more than happy to tell her about David's father, who was an alcoholic. They had expected Elizabeth to be suitably repelled and drop him then and there. Naturally, they were infuriated when she had defiantly refused. In any high school there are strict, if unspoken, social proprieties which are inviolable.

Those who do not conform are banished from the fold; a target for constant harassment. Elizabeth had not only defied convention, but she had the audacity to flaunt her defiance by taking David to places where he normally wouldn't have been seen. Eventually, their peers reluctantly accepted them as a pair, but they were always viewed with varying degrees of resentment and disdain.

She took him under her wing and had helped him grow, slowly at first and then in leaps and bounds. Yet, despite her subtle nurturing, she was unable to efface the stigma of his perceived inferiority.

"I'm a Lowlander, Liz," he had told her once. "And I am always going to carry that label as if it were a millstone. Sometimes it feels as if I have a ton hanging around my neck." She told him that he was being silly and that his background would be a failing only if he allowed it to be, but he could just not accept this. In the end, it had been this failure that had torn them apart. Every reminiscence ended here, on the same dull humid day seven years ago, when her entire world had collapsed around her, like one of the large redwoods that Semelar Pulp and Paper often cut down. He had been oddly quiet and reticent for the last week and she had grown increasingly concerned. He resisted her efforts to coax him to discuss his moods, deflecting her concern with half mumbled clichés that only deepened her anxiety.

Then he finally blurted it out as if he were purging some internal poison. "Liz, I've been accepted at UCLA on an English Scholarship, and I've decided to accept. I'm leaving in three days."

She was shocked to the point of virtual speechlessness for several minutes. When she had finally regained her composure, she demanded "What in God's name are you talking about?"

And then it all came out like a deluge through a ruptured dam. Writing had long been his true and secret passion, but he had kept this love concealed from everyone, even her. 'Why?' she asked, and he replied that he was afraid people would laugh at his work and he would be crushed and humiliated by their scorn.

"God damn you!" she flared, surprised by the fury this had unleashed in her. "How could you give me such little credit? Did you think that I would be so insensitive as to scoff at anything that you valued?" She stopped, trying to catch her breath, realizing for the first time, that the man before her was a stranger. He smiled apologetically, a smile fraught with such desperation and loss, that her anger melted like snow in July. He had showed her some of his work and she was amazed at the extent of his talent and the quality of the work to which it gave birth. The flow of words held a lyrical elegance and perception that belied his youth and inexperience.

"Liz, I love you more than any other thing in my life, including myself, but somehow that just isn't enough. In my own eyes, I don't see myself as worthy of you. Writing is a form of validation, of self esteem...maybe my only chance. I've just got to take it. I don't want to end up like my father, but without some means to avoid it, I can see it happening." She started to interrupt, but he forestalled her. "No Liz, please let me finish. I want, no, need to feel worthy of you. I can write. I really think that I can and I'm going to try to learn the craft. When I'm finished, I'll come back and give you the life that you deserve. Anything that you want. I promise." So he left and never returned. She received letters for awhile, but eventually they stopped. She assumed that he had met someone else, but his book jacket biographies made no mention of a wife. She read his books (a testimony to her lack of sustained resentment) and enjoyed them immensely. They were small slices of the David Stillman that she had known and loved.

The year after David's departure had been the bleakest of her life...first, her parents had died in an automobile accident, and then, in search of misguided security, she married Dan. Dan was the total antithesis of David; brash, arrogant and self centered. He tried, relentlessly, to dominate her over the two and a half years of their marriage. He failed, but just barely, having tested her resolve to its limit. Eventually, they divorced and he had moved on to easier prey. The wounds he had left on her psyche were mere scratches in comparison to the ones that David's departure had inflicted. All she had been left with was Nathaniel and the fierce desire to overcome the grim cards that life had dealt her. She adopted a strict code of guidelines which served her well during what she had termed her period of reconstruction. The most important of these had been the avoidance of any intimate personal relationships. There were a number of men whose company she enjoyed, but none with whom she would risk a serious relationship. She decided to keep her options open in that department and concentrate on developing other aspects of her life. In this endeavor, she had been quite successful.

A wave of weariness washed over Elizabeth and she found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. She looked out through the window before her desk, and saw a barely perceptible form hurrying along the street. A heavy rain had begun to fall, reducing visibility to a minimum. The figure appeared to be carrying something in its arms. Something about the stealthy manner in which the person moved aroused a small thread of disquiet in Liz. She could not have said precisely why, but the person moved like a wolf that had just snatched a sheep from beneath a herder's nose, and was carrying it off to feast.

"Probably just the rain making the person hurry." she heard herself say, but the voice lacked conviction and she realized she was becoming frightened. Rising quickly, she drew the blinds, cutting off her view of the street and whoever or whatever traveled upon it. She shook her head and laughed at herself. ' _No matter how adult we think we are, there is always a trace of childlike fear inside of us_ ,' she thought, bemused. Fear was an intrinsic part of life, though some managed to suppress it better than others. Only madmen knew no fear. "And devils," she murmured aloud. ' _Now where did that come from?_ ' she wondered. ' _I'm starting to act like a kid who has to walk past a graveyard on a dark, stormy night, after watching a horror movie._ ' She gave her night's work on the Mason design one last inspection. Deciding that she was satisfied with what she had done, she turned off the study lamp and made her way to her bedroom. On the way, she stopped to look in on Nathaniel. The small Goofy lamp, mounted over his crib, cast a mute glow over his sleeping form. He lay clutching his favorite bear, Pookey by name, as if his life depended upon its presence. Seeing him like that filled her heart with a love that was both profound and unremitting.

"Sleep well little man, your mommy sure does love you." she whispered. Closing the door, she went off down the hall to seek out the comforts of sleep.

But sleep held no comfort for Elizabeth Simpson that night. In the world that her sleeping mind fabricated, dark cloaked figures slid through the shadows. Their eyes were a ghastly yellow and their fangs were canine and deadly as they hunted what prey they could find there. And find prey they did, in vast numbers. She saw one of these creatures dragging a small child by the hair. The child had been mutilated and its passing had been marked by a trail of blood. In the seconds before she awoke in a screaming panic, Elizabeth had recognized the lifeless lump of carrion to be her son, Nathaniel.

5

Something was moving in the darkness. There wasn't a sufficient amount of light to identify specific features, but its silhouette gave the impression of something deformed and misshapen. The room was extremely damp, the brick walls slick with moisture, as if the building were alive and pouring sweat. A dull light was reflected by the water which stood a foot deep on the floor. The creature's eyes were golden, its skin scabrous and reptilian. It carried something effortlessly in its arms. One might have thought the burden to be nothing more than a bundle of clothes. It advanced to within ten feet of the north wall and let the bundle fall from its arms. It dropped into the water, the impact creating a loud echo which bounced off the walls.

The beast knelt before the wall and bowed its head. In the absolute stillness of the chamber, the only sound was the rasping inhalations of the creature. If anyone had come across this scene, they might have thought that the beast was engaged in a prayer. Suddenly, something about the atmosphere began to transform as the damp air of the chamber began to thicken. The putrid reek of sulfur filled the room and a fine red mist began to materialize near the north wall. It rose up out of the water, stretching to the ceiling and then spreading from wall to wall. A low buzzing issued from the mist, similar to the type emitted from an electrical source. The mist swirled and thickened, resolving itself into a vaguely definable form. The creature raised its head and regarded these developments with an expression of intense expectation and awe.

"My child," a voice issued, out of the mist. It was deep and compelling, causing the bricks of the room to reverberate with its puissance.

"Father, thank you for favoring me with your presence," the beast in the water replied reverently. In contrast to the bass from the mist, its voice was high and insectile. There was a sibilant quality to the sound that conjured up images of a serpent. Though its features were totally alien, it was still possible to recognize the expression in its eyes as one of reverence.

"Why have you summoned me?" the thing in the mist demanded.

"I have come here to spread your gospel, master, as I have done for more than a hundred years. I will make these infidels praise the beauty of your love and the rewards of your kingdom. In return, I beg of you, master, that I be granted a small recompense for my devotion." It paused, not sure how to continue. Its master was temperamental and volatile, yet the beast was bolstered by the belief that it was a favored creature. "There is one that I desire for myself. I would ask for this soul, in return for the ones that I shall deliver unto you."

It stopped. Its desire had surmounted its fear and now lust and anticipation shone nakedly in its eyes. The moment seemed to draw itself out and then the voice behind the veil of mist said, "Yes, this soul shall be my gift to you, dear one."

The master was more than happy to grant his minion this one request. This creature had always been one of the more zealous prophets of his order. He scrutinized the beast kneeling before him, and he saw the lust shining upon its hideous face. It had always served him well and the granting of this one request would ensure that such exemplary service would continue.

"Thank you for your generosity and consideration in this matter, Father. Though it is humble, I have brought you a token of my gratitude." With this, the beast reached down and hauled the bundle out of the fetid water. Cradling the burden in its left arm, it drew a nail along the surface of the vinyl bag. The nails were long and cracked, yet sharpened to needle points and they easily tore the bag asunder. When the bag had been split from one end to the other, the beast let its contents spill out into the water. It had once been a boy, but now it was a ruined chunk of desiccating flesh.

"Free its soul, child; deliver it to my keeping," commanded the master in a voice made strident by hunger. In response, the beast turned the body over on its back. The lifeless eyes stared vacantly towards the ceiling as if seeking intercession from heaven. One swift pass of a fingernail tore the shirt from the body, exposing the abdomen and chest. It drew a scalpel like nail along the body's centre. There appeared a thin line of blood, to mark its passage. The sight of blood aroused excitement in both beast and master. The chamber erupted in a blue luminescence. The beast drove all of its claws deep into the boy's abdominal muscles. At first the meat of the muscle resisted, but then it gave with a ghastly tearing sound. Blood spurted out of the wound, in great gushes, spattering the beast. It opened its mouth and let the red liquid splash over its tongue; drinking it down with great relish. It continued to rip the muscles, penetrating deep into the intestinal tract. Eventually, the hand hit the breast bone, but the butchery did not stop there. The beast took to its task with a driven frenzy. Gripping the rib cage with both hands, it raised its arms up and away from each other, literally tearing the boy's chest cavity apart. Shards of bone flew in every direction, landing in the water with audible plips. Around the body, a film of blood was spreading over the water's surface. Howling, the beast plunged its hand into the ruined chest cavity and withdrew the small heart. It raised the organ above its head, holding it aloft for a second, then opening its fang filled mouth, it squeezed until the heart gave up every drop of precious blood. This done, it let the remaining pulp fall into its mouth and began to chew. Red flecked spittle flew from its lips, as the beast consumed the organ with teeth that tore the meat apart like a thresher. After it had swallowed the last morsel, it closed its eyes, laid back its head, and bellowed its satisfaction...reveling in the desecration of human flesh.

Chapter Three: The Dawn of Darkness

1

The state of Washington possesses some rather unique characteristics, an example of which is this; when the clouds become pregnant with rain they descend to a level just atop the trees and lumber across the sky like heavenly galleons or perhaps saturated puffs of cotton. The morning of September the thirteenth had dawned in exactly this way. Low clouds skirted the tree tops, pushed on by an indolent Pacific breeze. The mist laden air was cool and damp and a ground fog could be seen lurking in the hollows. The weather and the countryside combined to weave a Gothic spell; a world more suited to Shelley and Stoker than Michener or Vidal. If one were blessed with a particularly active imagination, they could easily have conjured the presence of specters from distant ages to cavort in the swirling mists, taking refuge from the sun.

Joe Emery could be seen driving his Ford Fairlane down Bateman road, just as he had done each working day for the last thirty years. On this dreary Monday morning, Joe had awakened with inflamed joints and a head that felt as if it were serving as a practice hall for the London Philharmonic Orchestra. He lived alone in a small bungalow at the end of Bateman road. He had spent the previous night keeping company with a bottle of Gilby's Gin. The damp weather aggravated his arthritis and this, combined with his raging hangover, ensured him of a thoroughly wretched day. He pushed the Fairlane up to sixty and swung through a curve. The road was quite rough and he hit a pothole with bone jarring force, elevating the pain in his head to nauseating new levels. He gritted his teeth and cursed, but obstinately refused to slow down. There had been many a morning such as this one for Joe. He had been married, but had come home one day, twenty years ago, to find his wife and all of his possessions gone. Since then, he had grown to be an embittered, irascible old man, who was avoided by everyone whenever possible. To the indifferent morning sky, he remarked, "To hell with all of 'em!"

To Joe, the average town person was worth about as much as a drop of piss in a septic tank. It didn't particularly bother him that most towns' people regarded him in exactly the same light. Joe saw the large green collector boxes coming up on the right and slowed the Ford down to a crawl, easing it onto the soft shoulder. He reached into the back seat and took out his mail sack. The sack had once been dark blue, but it was now battered and faded from the years of service that it had seen. Joe too, had seen a lot in his time; things that would have sent the smug bastards into apoplectic convulsions. If a person just watched and kept inconspicuous, it was a simple matter to absorb the sordid details of other people's dirty little lives. Details such as who was stopping over at Alma Cornon's house after her husband, Reg, left for work. He had been a witness to other things over his thirty years as a mailman; some much less innocuous than an afternoon ride on the hobby horse.

He unclipped the key ring from its holder on his belt and selected the master key. Slipping it into the lock, he turned the key to the right and heard the clasp give. He swung the door open, and then reeled back, gagging, as the smell of putrescent gas assailed his nostrils. It was so rancid that Emery turned away and retched, spilling the half digested contents of his stomach onto the roadway. The sight of his own vomit induced a second wave of nausea, even more powerful and protracted than the first, literally driving him to his knees. When he regained his composure to a sufficient extent, he stood and stared back at the mail box. Instinct was braying a strident admonition to turn and flee as quickly as he could, but it was being overruled by his natural curiosity. The coppery taste of fear and the acidic taste of bile combined to burn his throat, impairing his breathing.

"Shit," he muttered in a voice that quavered like a poorly played clarinet. He extended his hands towards the door, the tension of the moment seemingly reducing time to an unnerving crawl. He grasped the green metal door edge with trembling fingers, and jerked back. Fear had endowed him with more strength than he would normally possess, causing the door to bang back on its hinges with a resounding crash. When the light revealed the contents of the box, Emery began to scream. The sound was high and piercing, very much like the wail of a woman in distress. A disembodied head was perched atop a mountain of mail. The high humidity had led to an accelerated decay and this accounted for the initial rush of gas. All of the top layers of skin had been excoriated to reveal the red muscle tissue below. The eye sockets were vacant and a yellowish green fluid oozed slowly from the orifices, down into the skull and eventually onto the letters below. Emery deduced that the head must have been torn from the body, because ropy tendrils of flesh and muscle trailed from the head in a jagged mass. The letters below were blood soaked and soggy. Here and there, small fragments of brain tissue had stuck to the paper. When they had first been mailed, these letters had been correspondence, some important and some trivial, but now they were couriers of death and butchery.

Emery slowly began to back away from the box, his eyes unable to tear themselves away from the horrible spectacle there. His heel caught on a large boulder and he fell down hard. With a startled yelp, he leaped back to his feet. It was then that he caught sight of the real horror.

"Oh, my God!" he screamed, no longer able to keep a reign on his fear and revulsion. He turned and sprinted for his car. It had suddenly occurred to him that whoever had done this might still be somewhere near. He jumped behind the wheel and threw the Fairlane into gear. With tears streaming down his face, he fled towards town.

2

By ten o'clock that morning, it occurred to Avery Mathis that today was not going to be such a good day. Mathis was the Semelar County Sheriff and had been for the last eight years. The town had always had a fairly mild temperament and the most difficult task he and his deputies were faced with was providing refereeing services for local tavern brawls. Naturally, there had been the occasional suicide or murder, but they had been mercifully spaced few and far between. Yet, when he had first opened his eyes this morning, he was visited by an abstract sense that it would be in his own best interest to remain in bed. That impression had been confirmed the first moment he had entered the station house. A distraught Mrs. Viola Cooper was railing at his desk deputy about lack of cooperation. Concerning what, he did not know, but he suspected that it had something to do with her mischievous son, Jeffery.

"Mrs. Cooper," he said, hoping to pacify her. "May I be of any help to you?"

She wheeled on him so quickly that she nearly toppled over. He was shocked by her condition; her hair was a wild mass of tangles, her make up was splotchy and her mascara had begun to run (from continuous crying, he assumed). Even her clothes were disheveled and odd. No one article seemed to match the other as if she had grabbed whatever had been handy. The desperate gaze in her eyes informed Mathis that the situation must have been a great deal more serious than just another childish prank.

"Why don't you people help me, for Christ sake? My son is fucking gone and I want you to help me." She punctuated each word by jabbing her right index finger into his chest.

"Please calm down, Mrs. Cooper," he had taken her gently by the shoulders in an effort to focus her attention upon him. At this, she broke down and started to cry again. The sound was so mournful and wretched that, despite his normal reserve and detachment, he felt his heart go out to this poor woman, who was stuck with a troublesome son and a dishcloth husband. He looked up at Peter Cooper and seeing the inadequate expression on his face, momentarily despised him for his inability to console his wife. His contempt surfaced and he grumbled, "Cooper, for God sake, don't just stand there. Tell me what happened."

Peter merely gazed at Mathis, his expression one of thorough bewilderment, and shrugged his shoulders. Mathis quickly saw that he would get no help there. He turned back to Viola and repeated his question. In the time that he had questioned Peter, she had managed to gather a small fragment of her composure. She tried to inhale, to compose herself enough to relate her tale. Slowly at first, then in a torrent, she told her story. Last night she had gone out with her husband to visit friends. Her son, Jeffery, had remained at home with his older sister. When they had returned, Viola went to check in on him prior to going to bed. She opened the door to find the room empty and a wide open window. Now she was here and wanted help.

He would always remember what happened next even if he were to live for an eternity. It would never have happened, but in his effort to calm Mrs. Cooper, he had neglected to follow his own operating procedure. Under normal circumstances, when a call came through that was directed to him, he would have taken it in his office so as not to be distracted by the activity in the reception area. This time, however, when his dispatcher received a field call from one of his deputies, he had asked for the hand microphone. He depressed the transmit button and said, "Go ahead, Rob."

Rob was Robert Mayes and when he began to relate the details of his discovery, Mathis was accosted by the premonition, similar in implication, if not content, to the one which had nearly caused David Stillman to crash. The miles of air space between them were not enough to dampen the dismay and revulsion in the deputy's voice. "Jesus, Avery, I'm out here on Bateman road by the big bank of mailboxes." Mathis winced at the tone of Mayes' voice, which was high and frantic. "Joe Emery was out here this morning to pick up the mail and he found a body."

Mathis clutched the microphone tightly, closed his eyes and held his fist to his forehead. A tiny voice told him, with implacable certainty, just whose body had been found. Behind him, Viola Cooper began to scream.

"He called in and I responded to the call. When I arrived here, I found Joe sitting on the side of the road, staring off into space. I asked him what was the matter and he just pointed over his shoulder. There's a body here, but it has been torn to pieces, Mathis. I've never seen anything like it. Everything..." Avery abruptly pressed the cut-off button, sparing Mrs. Cooper the gruesome details.

"I'm on my way, Rob," he replied, hoping to convey the impression that the two incidents were not related. His attempt failed miserably. He turned. Viola had fainted.

Twenty minutes later, a despondent Mathis stood on the dirt shoulder of Bateman road, with dust hanging around him in white puffs. Though the day had dawned rainy and cool, by noon the sun had come out with a vengeance. It beat down, both unrelenting and oppressive, causing everyone to squirm with discomfort. In light of what Mathis saw before him, the brilliance of the day seemed to symbolize the indifference of whatever God there might be looking down upon the spinning world. He had stood, transfixed with horror, in exactly the same spot for the better part of five minutes, unable to accept the reality of the thing before him. In the years that he had been a law officer, he had been fortunate, in that he had not been subjected to a great deal of humanity's baser actions. What hung before him now however balanced that scale with devastating swiftness.

Someone began to speak to him, but he waved them away with a flick of his wrist. He could not bring himself to speak about this because that would be the first step down the road towards acceptance. His mind screamed in abnegation, hoping to unravel the fabric of this particular reality. The weave was inviolable and Avery sighed. The head was still perched atop the mountain of mail, but that had only been a portion of the abominable display that had been left by the side of this country road. When Joe Emery had fallen after stumbling over the boulder, he had looked up to see the remainder of the body. He had found it just as it was now. Mathis had deduced that, due to its position and arrangement, the person who had left the body there had reveled in their grisly task. The headless corpse had been hung upside down with its knees draped over the cross piece of a utility pole. Even from ground level, Mathis could catch glimpses of the heads of the spikes that had been used to secure the body to the pole. They gleamed in the sunlight like an obscene parody of a lewd wink. The chest cavity was a complete ruin. White shards of bone protruded through the wreckage in stark contrast to the red meat around them. The body had been eviscerated and the intestines had been coiled around the pole. The arms were hanging plumb to the ground and Mathis noticed that every second finger had been removed. The body had been bled white and was rapidly going through the first stages of decomposition. A small placard had been nailed to the pole. It declared:

The passing of the witch shall bring light to the darkness, shall bring deliverance to the children of the bearer of light and death to the heretics of the Nazarene.

He read the words, mouthing each one with a fierce concentration, as if they held the key that would unlock the mystery of this nightmare. His effort was in vain and the passage remained nothing more than indecipherable hieroglyphics. The monster that was responsible for this obscene butchery, had left a blood inked riddle to tantalize his pursuers, but to Mathis it was merely the gibberish of a demented lunatic and thus totally meaningless to everyone else. A deeper, more elemental part of his mind disregarded this logical conclusion and wanted only to be gone.

A stream of sweat trickled down his brow and into the corner of his left eye. The stinging sensation, induced by the salt, broke the grip of his trance. He dug his knuckles harshly into the valleys of his eyes and then commenced the job of trying to find a reason, a clue to the atrocity that hung before him. "Rob, get that damn photographer to take his pictures and then get the forensic people to do what they have to do. When they're finished, put a bloody shroud over that thing."

The sight sickened him and he didn't know how much longer that he could tolerate it without developing the screaming horrors. The first priority was to alert the state authorities. He would have preferred not to do this, but was handcuffed by rigid protocol. Mathis was leery of state involvement and the inevitable publicity their investigation would generate. Initially, the most irritating aspect of this publicity would be the hordes of reporters that would descend on the tranquil town.

' _Or what had been a peaceful little town,'_ he amended sullenly. Still, there was something even more disturbing than this nuisance and although he would have preferred not to even think about it, his mind whispered those three sinister words; copy cat killer. Any law man who has dealt with homicides has been stricken by this particular fear. However, most homicides were not spectacular or gruesome enough to arouse the potential psycho-in-waiting's interest. When Avery looked up and saw the corpse silhouetted against the morning sun, he knew that this would be the ideal subject for duplicate killings. If the gruesome details of this murder were to be widely publicized, it was likely, even probable, that several similar murders would take place here and elsewhere. It was imperative that he convince the media to restrain their descriptive urges. He had been born and raised in Semelar and had been not only happy but content here. His life had not been spectacular. There had been no dramatic ups and downs; instead, there had been a pleasant plateau of permanence; a sameness that had been both mundane and comforting. Now, looking at the rotting corpse hanging on the utility pole, he understood that this tranquility would be forever lost. What was even more disturbing was the notion that, if he didn't succeed in solving this murder before its details became widely publicized, the quiet little life that he had built for himself would also irretrievably vanish.

Mathis turned away from the suspended nightmare and strode towards his patrol car. He reached through the open window and retrieved the two way microphone. "Dispatch, this is forest one, over."

"Go ahead, forest one," came the static cracked reply.

"Dispatch, please alert the state authorities that we have discovered a murder victim. Over."

"Copy, forest one. Will transmit the message immediately."

"Over," Mathis concluded and replaced the mic on the dash clip. Next, he turned to Dave Mchutcheon, another one of his deputies, and ordered him to fetch Joe Emery from his squad car. To Rob Mayes, he said, "Take another of the deputies and block off Bateman road. Establish a road block one mile on either side of this site. Reroute all traffic through the old mill road. I don't want anyone not connected to this investigation to get through here, understand. No one!"

"Don't worry Sheriff, I'll keep everyone out." He gave Mathis a conspiratorial wink, understanding that Mathis meant especially the press.

"If anyone asks what the problem is, tell them that there has been an accident and that the road is closed until further notice. Now get going." With this, Mayes turned and was gone. Mathis felt slightly relieved, knowing Mayes to be one of his most reliable and competent deputies. Just doing something helped him feel a little more at ease. At that instant, Mchutcheon returned with a semi lucid Joe Emery in tow. Emery looked as if he had aged five years in the course of one morning. Normally, Joe wore a contentious glare that he used as a shield between himself and the world. His wife's desertion and a long romance with the bottle had been primarily responsible for that glare. Now, however, it was gone, replaced by a vacuous stare that focused on nothing and saw nothing. Joe stood looking at Mathis or perhaps right through him, as if Mathis had somehow become transparent.

"Joe, listen to me, Joe. When you first got to the boxes this morning, what did you see?" Mathis asked, without much hope. At first Emery did not respond, but just kept staring through his questioner. Then he looked up at Mathis. Only then did Mathis grasp the severity of Joe's trauma. Joe looked to have come completely unglued. His mouth began to work, but he lacked the ability to form coherent sentences. He could only mutter garbled gibberish. Mathis viewed this degeneration with both alarm and impatience.

"I didn't, I didn't see anything, Avery. I was just makin' my first mail pickup of the morning and when I opened the letter box, that... that thing was in there." Tears had begun to well up in the corners of his eyes, his whole body shaking visibly.

"When you came up along Bateman road, did you see anyone walking or driving towards you?" the sheriff asked urgently.

"No one, Sheriff. I never saw anyone. Please let me go. I'm not feelin' very well. God but I ain't." His voice was so resonant with horror and dismay that Mathis decided to let him leave. He doubted that Joe could be of any further value in his present state.

"All right Joe, get out of here," he said. A look of utter relief swept over Joe's face and he started to stumble away. He was more than happy to flee from the human wreckage that was hanging like a sacrifice not twenty feet from where he stood. Abruptly, Mathis reached out and seized his left arm. He then swung Joe around to face him with such force that Joe nearly toppled to the ground. Mathis stared ice daggers into Emery's eyes and growled, "I don't want to hear about any of this down to Bert's Tavern, you hear me? If I start to hear stories about little boys being hung from poles, I'm gonna know who told 'em. If I do, Joe, I promise that I'm gonna come looking for you."

Emery merely gaped at Mathis for a second and mumbled, "I won't say anything, Avery."

Mathis released his grip on Joe's arm, and the mailman turned and walked back to his Fairlane. He got in, started the engine and slowly pulled away without glancing back. Mathis watched him drive off, until his decrepit Ford disappeared around a curve. He then turned and walked over to Dr. Mitchell, who served as the Semelar County Coroner. He had switched his mind over to its professional autopilot. Reducing the situation to a series of technical components made the atrocity more manageable. Dr. Mitchell was a man of medium height, who seemed much too fastidious to be involved in such a gory, brutally crude vocation.

"What do you make of this, Roy?" Avery inquired, hoping to disguise the aversion which he felt toward the man.

"Right now, I'm not sure that I'd be able to make anything of this, as you say." He paused, appraising the wreckage of the child's rib cage. "Essentially, this child has been literally torn apart."

"So it isn't likely that this is the work of a professional, say a doctor or even a butcher?" He hoped that the little dagger twist would not be lost on Mitchell. The brief glower in the other man's eyes told him that the shot had been registered but Mitchell considered himself too much of a gentleman to engage in a sparring session with a petty Sheriff.

"If you will note the state of the corpse, particularly the condition of the head, the jagged wounds would indicate that a sharp instrument was not used. The loose skin hanging from the neck area suggests that the head was ripped from the body."

Mathis nodded, not wanting to look at the severed head and not really having to, as the impression was firmly ingrained in his memory. He doubted that even time would be able to efface that image. "You know, Doc, it seems that whoever would have done this must have been terribly strong."

"I agree. In fact, if it were not for the position of the corpse and that, er, greeting card, I could easily believe that this had been done by a large animal, such as a bear."

"Whoever did this was an animal all right, but the kind that walks on two legs. Just on an off chance, do you have any idea who that might have been?" Avery asked, inclining his head in the direction of the corpse and dreading the answer.

"I can tell you with a reasonable degree of certainty that this is the body of Jeffery Cooper," Mitchell responded at once. Mathis detested him for the cold, clinical manner in which he viewed this butchery. His interest was clinical and his voice was dispassionate. It dawned on him that he had not made mention of the boy's disappearance "How can you be so certain?"

"The scar on his left side was the result of some stitching that I had done when he had fallen from a ladder three years ago." he elaborated.

"God, this is going to tear Viola apart," Mathis muttered, loathing the responsibility of bringing her the bad news.

"I suppose that it will." Mitchell concurred. His voice was neutral and Mathis knew that he cared little one way or the other. He started to turn away, but then Mitchell said, "I would be willing to wager that this is only the beginning."

Mathis' head snapped back to the doctor. "What do you mean by that?" horrified that someone had given voice to his greatest fear.

Mitchell looked rather startled by Mathis' agitated reaction. He hesitated for a moment and then explained, "I simply mean to say that this message seems to promise more of the same. And death to the heretics of the Nazarene. In my estimation, this would imply that the person intends to kill the worshippers of Christ."

"God, do me a favor, Doc, don't tell anyone else about your little theory." They both looked at the body hanging against the backdrop of a cobalt blue sky and Mitchell said, "Judging by that, I should think that my conclusion would be fairly straightforward and apparent."

They continued to stare, in silence, at the dead clay that had once been a living child. The day had dawned dark and now that darkness had congealed into blackest night.

Chapter Four: Coming Home

1

The darkness had fallen upon Semelar, but most of its residents remained oblivious to the fact. They went about their daily business, concerned only with the things that affected their own lives. Eventually, most residents would feel the chill of the dark shadow which had fallen across them, but only a few would ever know that their fate had been sealed from that very morning.

David Stillman sat before his portable word processor, absorbed in constructing a world for his new characters to inhabit. A siren disrupted his concentration, but he spared it only a passing thought. Being from LA, sirens were a normal part of his everyday environment. Since his arrival, he had confined himself to this small, less than clean room and worked on his initial character draft and story outline. He had quickly progressed beyond this, to a point where he could now begin writing the initial chapter of his novel. His working title was to be _Gardens of Thunder_ and its story line was to be a fictitious parallel of his own life. In the novel, his main character would return home after an absence of some years and attempt to come to terms with his joyless childhood...a childhood that stood between him and future happiness like a steel wall. He wasn't certain how the novel would resolve itself, but he suspected that its outcome would mirror how his own stay in Semelar developed.

It was now twelve o'clock and he decided to take a one hour break from his writing. He committed his morning's offering to disk and shut down his system. He withdrew the disk from the machine and placed it into its plastic container. This, he placed in a steel box which he then locked. He went to his closet and retrieved a green Windbreaker. Then opening the door, he stepped out into the gravel parking lot. Ernie Simms was seated in a plastic lounge chair, beside his office door. A large stack of comic books was piled beside the chair, as was a six pack of Miller Lite. Simms was pondering replacing some of the burnt bulbs over some of the doorways, but the debate of the notion's merit dragged on. Replacing the bulbs had lost out for the past six days running. He looked up and saw Stillman crossing to his Olds. He raised his hand in greeting and Stillman smiled and waved back, then continued to his car. In the week Stillman had been here, Ernie had come to find that he genuinely liked the man. He was a writer and so probably a little on the queer side, but he appeared straight enough. It seemed, to Ernie at least, that he took life a little too seriously, but he supposed those writer fella's were inclined to be that way. Simms shook his head and went back to his comics and the light bulb debate.

Stillman had taken his meals exclusively at Beaman's Diner in the Lowlands. He had wished to immerse himself in his old environment, but after a week, he had begun to feel the need to get out and explore the remainder of Semelar. Remaining cloistered in the Lowlands left him with the feeling that he was slipping back in time. He seemed to see what lay beneath many of the faces that he encountered in the Lowlands. It was as if below the skin of each new face, there dwelt a face from seven years ago. They were as familiar as if he had seen them only yesterday. Sometimes he thought that these were the same recycled souls in different bodies condemned to spend eternity entrenched in the slum lands of human existence. This thought had always depressed him and he quickly cast it from his mind.

The day was shaping up to be quite warm. Beads of sweat were forming under Stillman's collar, so he switched on the car's air conditioning system. He crossed the tracks and headed into the Semelar business district, in search of an Italian restaurant. Near Nathan Park, he spotted Momma Antonelli's and decided to stop there. Minutes later, he was seated at a quiet back table, considering his options on Momma's menu. He selected linguini with clam sauce and a half liter bottle of red wine. A pretty waitress took his order, granted him the obligatory smile and left him to his thoughts. Fate is an inventive force that conjures up exquisite twists and turns when plotting the course of events. Had Stillman not had lunch at Momma's, but selected some other place, the events that followed may have taken on a radically different complexion. Yet he had come and all that was to follow would be born out of this single and seemingly insignificant juncture.

He sat, with his hands folded on the table, absently staring down at his placemat. The placemat was made of plastic and housed a collage of advertising cards from local business establishments. Here was one for welding products and there, another advertising seamless eave troughs. One was elegantly hand scripted and it was this that caught his attention. It read:

Interior Concepts and Designs

Through Imagination comes a New Reality

Elizabeth Simpson

371 4352

The name caused him to gasp aloud and his eyes to pop wide like silver dollars. Had anyone been looking at him at that precise moment, they might have thought he was having a cardiac arrest.

' _God, could it really be Liz?'_ he asked himself. Something told him that it was. He had tried to suppress all thoughts of her, but had failed wretchedly. Often, he would find himself sitting and simply staring at the telephone book that lay on the night table beside his bed. Somehow, he had resisted the urge to pick up the book and try to find her name. The thought of this had made his heart thunder as if he were a high school kid again. It had also aroused such a confusing flood of emotions that he was left shaken and weak from their intensity. He had been afraid that she would be gone or, even worse, married. The last possibility would have torn him apart. Best then that he not know, so he had never picked up the phone book. Yet, everyday it emitted a siren song that tugged at his thoughts like an addiction.

The element of mystery had allowed him to keep thoughts of her at a distance...but now, here she was, her existence confirmed in black and white. This single business card, discovered by chance, placed her front and centre in his mind. Even now, it was upon him and demanding the attention that he had refused to give it for the better part of seven years. He consumed his Linguini without really tasting it. David knew that it would be in his best interest to go back to his hotel, resume work upon his book and once finished, drive away from Semelar and into whatever new life the future held for him. He also understood, with equal clarity, that he could never do this. He had struggled to find himself, to prove his self worth, and had lost the person that he had loved the most in the process.

It would be ludicrous, he saw, to think he could ever recapture the love he had squandered. In all likelihood a meeting would only make matters worse and add another layer to a wound that was already far too deep. He had burned that bridge the day he had left her. The chasm between them was far too wide to ever span. Perhaps this was why he had let the ties between them fade away over the first year of their separation. Despite all of this common sense consideration, David would have to find out how she had fared since his sudden departure. He wanted her to see what he had become and more absurd still, he wanted her to bestow her approval.

2

Forty five minutes later, Stillman was parked across the street from Elizabeth's office. The bungalow was typical of the woman he remembered; pleasant, stylish and efficient. He had watched the building for the past half hour, unable to muster the nerve either to go in or to drive away. He had analyzed each possible scenario for their reunion, but could not predict the chances of any being likely. In the first, she was ecstatic over his return and welcomed him back with open arms. In the second, she was furious and simply threw him out. He thought that the first, while fodder for romantic fiction, was too much to realistically expect, while the second was closer to the true course such an encounter would likely follow. There was a third option, one he preferred not to consider. _'Try to ignore it, Dave, but you better be prepared anyway_ ,' his traitorous subconscious whispered. What if she greeted him with the cold detachment of a stranger, as if he were someone who had played a small, insignificant part in her past life...someone whom she could now regard with total indifference?

Stillman surveyed the street and noted that a woman was standing at her fence, regarding him suspiciously. It was then that he realized just how long he had been parked there. He would have to decide on a course of action or the next person to scrutinize him would be from the Semelar Sheriff's Department. His heart began to pound in a mixed rhythm of fear and anticipation. He opened the driver side door and stepped out onto the hot street. The heat beat down upon him in a palpable wave, but the sweat on his brow came more from adrenalin than the sun's thermal barrage. He crossed the street and moved quickly up the walk, trying to do what he intended to do before his meager resolve vanished, lest he be overcome by fear. Then he would just turn and run. In a way, this seemed like an inviting turn of events, but then he would spend the rest of his life cursing his cowardice. He had run away once; he could not afford to do so again. His self respect could not endure another such blow.

A small sign was taped to the stained glass; Welcome to Interior Concepts and Design. Please enter. So he did. The office portion of the house was quaint and pleasant. Sample books were arranged neatly along the length of the counter. In a display case, located in a corner by the office window, there were several volumes of interior design manuals. A large desk dominated the centre of the room. The place was meticulously neat, but had still been infused with a portion of her personality so as not to be sterile. In the far corner, a door lead into what he guessed was the private quarters. Beside this door was a large filing cabinet where Elizabeth was going through the files with her back to him.

"Hello, I'll be with you in a moment," she called out. Stillman felt himself shiver. Her voice was strong, lilting and melodic; exactly as he remembered it. In that second, he understood just how much of a void the absence of that voice had left in his life. She straightened gracefully and turned to face her customer with a smile already forming on her lips. David saw that the years had worked their magic upon the young woman he had known. She was beyond beautiful; she was simply radiant. Her hair shone like loom spun gold and her eyes were the deepest blue, like the waters of some pure and bottomless ocean. Her body was exquisitely molded, but beneath the elegance there lurked a hint of animal sexuality.

"My God, it's you," she whispered. In the space of a few seconds, the full gamut of facial expression rippled across her features; shock, happiness, regret, anger and shock again. His sudden appearance had left her totally disconcerted. For his part, he could not find the words to adequately express his profound regret for the error he had made and for the pain that he had caused her. He stood there, paralyzed and unable to speak and she in turn, did basically the same. The moment seemed to stretch out and Stillman feared that it would linger for an eternity. The reproachful stare forever set upon her face, matching the self loathing tearing at his heart.

"Why are you here?" she asked finally, not moving from her spot near the cabinet.

"I, I just couldn't stay away any longer." He stopped, knowing how feeble he must have sounded.

"Why in God's name are you here, David?" she repeated, anger creeping into her tone. For a moment, Stillman wondered if he had actually spoken at all. He began to feel utterly miserable, seeing no way to beat an honorable retreat.

"I tried to say away, Liz. Honestly I did, but then I just had to see you, to see how you've been, how you are." Again, he stopped, wishing that he could step back in time, to a point where he still would have been able to drive away.

"So you thought that after seven years you could just breeze through that door and say hello, as if you had left only yesterday?" The tone conveyed no sarcasm, only incredulity and a long harbored pain. Stillman could easily see through this veil and it tore his heart out to know that he was responsible for whatever pain she was feeling.

"I don't know what I thought, Liz. I suppose I didn't think at all. The only thing that I knew, with any certainty, was that I had to see you one last time - to see that I hadn't hurt you as much as I obviously have. I realize how pathetically insufficient any apology would be, so I won't even try. If it's any consolation, I've lived the past seven years cursing my own stupidity. Now, I'm sure I'll live the rest of my life the same way."

"It isn't, damn it!" she flared in return. Without warning, she strode across the floor to where he stood and slapped his face with all of the force that she could summon. She was surprised by her emotional intensity even after so long. "You cut me, David. A lot of words can't heal that. I loved you, but you treated me like some kind of conniving enemy. You never trusted me, nor did you have any faith in me. Sometimes I doubt whether you ever loved me at all?"

He averted her eyes, looking instead at his hands and said, "I did love you Liz, it was just myself that I could never find any love for. I thought that, if I could make something of myself, I would be worthy of you, but I was a fool. If a person can't find self worth in the love they're given, then they won't find it at all. I've become a fairly successful writer, but standing here, looking at the woman you've become, I still don't feel deserving of you."

"Why are you here, David?" she asked for a third time, though this time without challenge or rancor.

"I've come to say good bye and to tell you that I'm deeply sorry for the wrong I have done you. To tell you that I hope you fare well and find someone deserving of you - someone who will make you happier than I ever did. Mostly, I've come because I missed you and wanted to experience a small sliver of what I'd so foolishly squandered." He looked into her blue eyes and concluded, "Good bye, Liz."

With this, he turned and opened the door. Behind him, he heard her begin to cry softly, but he did not look back. Instead, he closed the door and stepped out into the hot afternoon sunshine, feeling more alone and empty than he had ever felt before.

He was halfway down the walk when he heard the door open behind him.

"Stillman!" she said in a husky voice. His heart leapt into his mouth; it was the voice that she had always used when she had been mildly irritated with him. He turned to look at her and saw that she was smiling through her tears. "You've been gone for seven years, don't you think that you could stay a bit longer than five minutes."

David Stillman had come home.

3

They passed the rest of the afternoon in each others company and after the initial awkwardness had gone, the old feeling of contentment returned for both of them. She told him about the developments in her life, since his departure. When she related the tragic details of her parents' death, she broke down. Her entire body was wracked by convulsive sobbing and the tears flowed as if the accident had happened only yesterday.

It occurred to David that she had bottled up her feelings and subjugated the pain for all these years. Then she told him about her failed marriage, and about her son. When this portion of her story had been told, Stillman was overcome by a tidal wave of self loathing. It was amazing, he marveled, how easy it was to damage someone under the misguided intention of helping them. When she had needed him the most, he had abandoned her. Even worse, had he not left, a great deal of the misery she had faced could have been avoided. He wanted to go to her and hold her. He wanted to make amends, but hadn't the slightest idea of how to begin. He had forfeited his right to comfort her a long time before. So she sat there pouring out her tale of personal tragedy while he could only sit and listen in silence.

"It would have been very easy to give up, David. It was what everyone expected, but I was determined not to fall apart. Nathaniel was my source of strength. Had it not been for him, I might very well have had a total breakdown." she said, a fierce internal pride shining in her eyes. He admired her for that perseverance. He had always respected her as a person, but her determination caused him to raise his estimation of her worth well beyond the limits of respect. He regarded her with a love that bordered on worship. Conversely, he could only regard himself with scorn and derision.

"I've succeeded in a modest way," she continued as she slowly looked about the office. "This is not a lot, but it is only a beginning. This business has filled a void in my life. Not completely, not by a long shot, but at least to a point where my life is now tolerable. I'd just come to terms with living without you and almost magically, you reappear. I'm asking myself why?" She fixed him with a stern glance of appraisal. He began to squirm under that stare and seeing discomfort, she frowned and looked away.

"And what about you, David Stillman, what have you done with your life?" She inquired, trying to ease some of the gravity out of the conversation. So, he told her everything. He spoke for the next half hour, filling her in on all of the twists and turns his life had taken since that day seven years ago. He omitted the feelings of loneliness that had plagued him incessantly during the first two years of his stay in Los Angeles. He could not tell her how much he had missed her and how, sitting alone in his room, he had conjured up her image to keep him company. In the light of the things that she had been forced to endure, his complaint of loneliness would seem selfish and laughably feeble. So he talked of his years at U.C.L.A. and of the four novels that he had written. He was pleasantly surprised when, at this point, she had stood up and left the room, without comment. Moments later, she returned and laid all four hard cover novels out in front of him. The idea that she had collected all of his works touched him so profoundly that Stillman could barely restrain the urge cry.

"Why look so solemn, Stillman?" she chided, "How about an autograph?"

He scoffed at this, "If anyone should be asking for an autograph, it's me. I've just written about life, you've experienced it firsthand."

"Thank you," she said earnestly. "I'm really no different from anyone else who has had to struggle to regain their dignity in the face of adversity."

Again, he felt the urge to reach out and hold her and once again he fought it back. ' _Oh_ _God, so much time_ ,' he thought; so many changes. ' _I'd give anything for one more chance.'_ He felt like a man who had just burned a bridge and now stood looking back at the other side, eyes filled with longing.

She was speaking again and this snapped him out of his reverie. "I'm sorry, I was wool-gathering."

"I asked if you're married?" she repeated.

"No," he replied simply.

"Oh," Was there a faint hint of relief in her voice? He supposed this was just wishful thinking on his part.

"I've dated, but that's the extent of it. Never anything that you would call serious though," he added quickly, feeling the need to emphasize that particular point.

"Why not?" she asked seemingly perplexed.

"I tried, but I could never commit myself to a serious relationship. The women in LA are very beautiful, very charming, yet they seemed to lack some essential ingredient I needed to feel attracted to them. It was almost as if they were working to an elaborate yet esoteric plan" He did not elaborate beyond this, but his implications had been fairly obvious...none of them measured up to his memory of Elizabeth.

She continued to watch him with her expression of frank appraisal, finally saying, "You frighten me, David Stillman. You're like a spring thaw that brings a wave of warmth one day, only to be gone the next, leaving the cold to have its way. You're an enigma to me. On one hand, I feel that I know you more than anyone else ever could and on the other, I feel as if I'm talking to a total, possibly dangerous stranger. In the last three years I've constructed an emotional fortress around myself, because I wasn't willing to risk any further pain. You are the one person in this world who could tear it down. I want you to know that."

"Liz, I really don't think that it's possible for me to hurt you again," he answered softly.

"You didn't intend to last time, but you did," she countered. She had said this, not so much as an accusation, but as an incontrovertible statement of fact.

"I was young and foolish then. I've done a little growing up since."

"Perhaps you have, but I'll just have to make my own judgment." His look was so crestfallen that she reached out and laid her hand over his. Her touch was feathery light and electric. "But I am willing to try."

"That's all that I can ask and it's probably more than I deserve," he whispered hoarsely.

They continued to talk for another few minutes and then she told him that she would have to leave to pick up her son. She walked him to his car and he realized that, in just one afternoon, her essential humanity and beauty had again captivated his heart. There was an awkward moment at the car when he felt that he should have kissed her. In the past this would have been a natural thing, but now he could only smile and climb into his car.

At last he said, "You know where I am, Liz. Please call me."

She smiled. Her face was thoughtful, even a bit melancholy. As a younger Elizabeth Simpson, she would have eagerly said yes. Now, as an older, battle scarred woman, she replied, "I'll think about it David. That's the best that I can do."

He nodded and smiled a fey smile. It was his nature to believe that she would not call. Without saying more, he put the Olds into gear and drove away. She watched him go from the sidewalk; a beautiful woman standing in front of the secure little world that she had built. She continued to watch until the car had disappeared out of sight.

Chapter Five: In the Den of the Witch

1

The Semelar Psychiatric Facility was located three miles to the southeast of the Witly Marsh. It was a sprawling gray building that serviced Semelar and the surrounding counties. The building was squat, gray and mildly repulsive; typical of modern American institutional design. Evidently, the designers of such facilities were intent upon conveying some of the troubled atmosphere that existed within the structure's walls. Ernie Simms had said, "It looks like a friggin' prison" when he had first seen it. He went on to state that it had the ideal look for a loony bin.

Jimmy Simms sat beside his mother on a hard wooden bench that had been placed along the wall of the facility's central reception room. His brow was clouded by worry and his eyes were focused into another dimension - a dimension where no adult could follow, especially a drunken father and a fawning mother. The hardwood had made his butt ache and he squirmed to find relief from its unyielding surface. He had not slept well the night previous and now his eyes burned from the lack of sleep. He had been kept up by a nagging fear; a fear that was unfocused and even more disturbing as a consequence. He did not have the vocabulary to articulate such a complicated concept as paranoia, but in his own way, Jimmy had a well developed comprehension of the condition. One of the things that most disturbed him was the new doctor that he was about to see.

His last Doctor had been Dr. Elderberg. He had been a pretty nice man, but his constant repetition of the same questions, again and again, had made Jimmy's head ache. Jimmy had been uncertain as to how to answer or what Elderberg had been looking for when he questioned him. Actually, he wasn't certain why he was forced to come here at all, but that was something that he preferred not to think about. At least Doctor Elderberg had been a kind man. Jimmy knew this because, when he chose to look inside the man's head, he had seen a predominantly yellow light and calm, serene images. It was this ability to _see_ into other people's minds that had led Jimmy to be taken here in the first place.

He had always been a quiet, rather introspective boy, who preferred to be by himself. People had always frightened him. More precisely, the colors inside their heads frightened him and so he had made it a habit to avoid people, whenever possible. It may have been that he had always possessed the ability to look into people's minds, but he was five years old when he first became aware of the 'sight'.

He closed his eyes and laid his head against the wooden backrest. His mother glanced at him, feeling her abstract concern. He was a small boy for his age and much too thin for her liking. His features were delicate and particularly handsome; the pride and joy of his mother's life. She had often wondered how two wretched souls, such as Ernie and herself, could have produced such a special child.

2

Even at five, Jimmy had been a solitary child. He felt ill at ease with other groups of children and tried his best to avoid situations that would make him feel different. He wasn't really sure why it bothered him to feel different, but it did and so he preferred to distance himself from others. The day that he first became aware of the light had been similar to all of the other days of that summer. He had gotten out of bed, washed and dressed, and then padded down the stairs to the kitchen. His mom had been scurrying about preparing breakfast and his father was sitting at the kitchen table, looking sullen and tired from his nightly waltz with a wine bottle.

He ate his breakfast, the usual offering of Corn Flakes, toast and milk, without really tasting it. No one spoke and this too was the way that Jimmy preferred it. Conversation only served to delay his escape. When he had finished, he brought his bowl and glass to the sink and awaited the obligatory kiss from his mom. "Be back for lunch, Jimmy, and don't go into the Marsh, all right?"

"I won't, mom," he promised solemnly. She looked at him with a troubled expression set upon her face and he felt the need to escape arise with a renewed vigor. He couldn't comprehend the nature of that look or the reasons behind it. He did know that it made him feel odd, as if he were some interesting new species of bug. He turned and walked past his father, who continued to stare into whatever self induced hell his liquor tormented mind had conjured for him. He opened the door and ran out into the street. He was struck by the stale humid air, yet despite its oppressiveness, it was still better than the poisonous atmosphere of the apartment. He wanted to be as far away from home as possible, so he decided to walk to Amsen's junk yard, which was located just beyond the Witly Marsh. He set his feet into motion, anticipating the adventure he might find there. The junk yard was a fascinating place that always had some interesting new treasure to be found if you were willing to spend the time looking. Jimmy was willing to spend the time because time was the only thing of any real value that he could call his own.

He moved through the blocks of run down houses until they began to give way to the asteroid belt of neglected warehouses and garages. The detritus of failed commercial ventures was strewn everywhere, and he frequently stopped to inspect the more interesting items that he came across. He did not notice the battered Ford, cruising slowly about a hundred yards behind him. When he finally reached the junk yard, he ducked behind an elm tree to make sure that the way was clear. Though he was a small boy, he understood the need for caution. Lister Amsen was a contentious old man, who regarded his property in the same way that a king might regard his realm. To secure the frontiers of this fabulous kingdom, Amsen had acquired two very large, very mean Dobermans. Somehow Jimmy had always managed to avoid the dogs and it was not until much later that he began to suspect this was due to his strange ability.

Back then, Jimmy suspected that his luck came as a result of his caution. He surveyed the entire length of the junk yard, but saw no trace of the owner or his dogs of war. He turned his attention to the street and it was then that he first saw the black Ford. It was parked about one hundred and fifty feet from where he stood. He was assailed by a sudden electric bolt of fear. There was something about the squat black car that seemed predatory. He looked up and down the street and realized, with growing disquiet, that it was ominously deserted. Deserted, except for himself and the Ford, his mind informed him with a sort of perverse delight as if it had no stake in the matter of its own well-being.

At once, the driver's side door swung open and a man ducked out onto the street. Jimmy's heart thudded as the man took off his mirror lens sun glasses and looked directly at him. Then it happened, a flash of red light, overlaid by a thin sheen of black, exploded before his eyes. At least, this had been his first impression, but then he came to understand that the light burst had occurred not before his eyes in the real world, but in his mind. His mind was bombarded with a barrage of images. These images were all colored blackish red and were strange, sick and frightening. Though he was too young to grasp their specific nature, Jimmy knew that the man meant to harm him. These images continued to flash through his mind's eye, gaining speed as the man closed the distance between them. Despite the oppressive humidity, the man wore a long coat, jeans and Dingo boots. His face was covered with stubble and his hair was slick with sweat. His features were crude and chiseled as if his face had been fashioned by a psychotic sculptor. He looked quite mad and most definitely dangerous.

The fact that his eyes confirmed the odd sensations that his mind had transmitted got him moving. He came out from behind the tree and sprinted across the street. The man was only fifty feet away and he too broke into a run. When Jimmy reached the opposite side of the deserted street, he began to run along the fence, looking for an opening into the junk yard. He could hear the frenzied pounding of the man's feet on the concrete and tried to pick up his own pace. He saw an opening just ahead of him. It was, he could see, just small enough for him to duck through. He put on a burst of speed and scrambled through the opening beneath the fence. He could hear the man curse. "You little bastard, I'm gonna kick your ass for that!"

"Fuck you!" Jimmy screamed defiantly. That defiance curdled as he saw two hands appear at the top of the fence. The man hoisted himself up and looked down at Jimmy.

"We'll see who fucks with who, you little prick!" he snarled. Now the images in his head came back, but the black began to dominate the red. Jimmy turned and fled into the heart of the junk yard, not stopping to ponder the implications of this new development. He zigzagged through the rows of stacked cars and junk, hoping that he would not make a wrong turn and run right into the man's arms. He was tiring rapidly, so decided to duck into a little niche and catch his breath. A mere thirty seconds later, the man's legs came into view. Jimmy burrowed deeper into the shadows and held his breath. Eventually, the man moved on. Jimmy felt tears forming in his eyes and knew that he must escape soon or face total panic. The voice, that would in the next few years become so familiar, spoke to him. He was so startled that he glanced around the hiding space, to see if there was someone else with him...there wasn't.

"Jimmy listen...you are in real trouble, but if you listen to me, you'll get out of here. You've got to find the dogs, Jimmy. Do you understand?" the voice instructed. The voice was firm, but comparatively calm. That calm reassured him somewhat.

"Yes," he said aloud, "I understand.

"Then go back along the way that you came. Head straight towards the house."

The voice was undeniable so he moved out and along the rows of cars, back towards the green corrugated metal fence. There was a scream and Jimmy whirled to see the man running towards him. He saw the hole; it beckoned to him invitingly, but his mind's voice said, "No! If you get out into the street, he'll catch you in the open."

Jimmy looked at the hole, but the urgency in the voice decided the issue and he started to run towards the office and the dogs. The heavy humidity finally gave way to a torrential rain that rapidly turned the yard into a quagmire. Jimmy ran through the mud, turning right at a pile of junked autos, and saw the office. The dogs were nowhere to be seen. He looked back and saw that the man was quickly closing the distance between them. There was a blaze of triumph and anticipation in his insane brown eyes.

Jimmy turned and began to run, but his mud slicked sneakers lost their traction and he pitched forward onto his face. Instinct told him to roll to his left and he did so without hesitation. The man had leapt into the air with the intention of coming down upon him with both feet. He missed, but only by inches. Jimmy wiped the mud from his eyes and looked up at his pursuer. The blackish red glow in his head pulsed like a strobe light, informing Jimmy that the man meant to kill him. The man bent over, trying to catch hold of Jimmy's foot, but the boy threw a fist full of mud directly into his face. The mud not only blinded him, but went into his open mouth, causing him to choke. He staggered about, grasping his throat and making choking sounds.

Jimmy stood and resumed his dash towards the office. Just then, a horrifying thought dawned upon him. What if he's not here? What if he's left and taken his dogs with him? His mind cut this off with brutal swiftness. He had to be here and that was all.

"You bastard. You fucking little bastard. I'll kill you!" The furious shriek made his bladder tremble, but it also proved to be his salvation. The two Dobermans, who had been sleeping under the office porch, snapped awake at the sound of the cry. They sprang out of their shelter, racing towards the source of the noise. Both Jimmy and his tormentor saw them coming at the same instant. The man's look of jubilation turned to terror as the dogs raced towards him, all snarls and gnashing teeth. At last, Jimmy's frail calm broke and he began to cry. The dogs' color emanations were even more intense than the man's had been and he believed that they might just kill both himself and the man.

' _Why did I listen to the voice?_ ' he asked himself, when suddenly it spoke again.

"You have to listen to me! You must stand perfectly still. Close your eyes and do not move," it whispered with great urgency. The dogs were about seventy feet away now and approaching with blinding speed. Behind him, the man had turned and was fleeing towards the rear of the junk yard. Jimmy knew that he could never outrun the dogs. He had nothing to lose by listening to the voice, so he stood perfectly still and closed his eyes. The dogs rocketed by him without even slowing down, continuing their frenzied pursuit of the man. He opened his eyes, astounded to find that he had escaped unharmed.

"Now go quickly to the gate. Don't run, walk, but fast. When you're out in the street, then you can start to run." He didn't hesitate a second. He felt a wave of calm sweep over him, bathing him in the waters of cold logic. When he reached the street, he allowed himself a brief backwards glance. The dogs had driven the man onto the top of a stack of cars. He cursed at them and they, in turn, were leaping at him, only to fall back to the ground, yelping in frustration. Jimmy knew that he would stay there until the absent Mr. Amsen returned or the dogs or the man died of starvation. He smiled, turned and ran towards home; glad for once to be going there.

He never told anyone about that day, but since then, he had come to learn a little more about the ability with which he had been endowed. He came to realize that everyone gave off a sort of psychic aura, which was indicative of the type of person they were and their particular mood at the moment. He had come to understand this from a sort of trial and error process, over the years. He had reached the following conclusions; white represented spiritual purity which was possessed by a limited number of people and only in small measures; next was yellow. Of the people he encountered, the majority fell into this category. These people proved to be basically good, stable people. Their auras were tinted by different colors that were reflective of their mood. People who gave off a red aura were angry or disturbed. When this red aura was tainted by black, they became potentially dangerous, like the man who had chased him through the junk yard. Blue was representative of depression or spiritual torment. When blue deepened to purple, this depression indicated the possibility of suicide, though he did not understand this at the time. Occasionally, his father's aura ranged from blue to purple. Jimmy took great pains to avoid him during these episodes. This was not because he was afraid of him, but because he was afraid for him. Black signified evil, pure and malign. He had never encountered anyone who radiated a black aura; however, he had come across people, whose auras had been tainted black. Usually, such people were envious, jealous or hateful. There were colors, the meaning of which he could not fathom, such as orange or green. This bothered him because it made those people undecipherable to him, like a complex intaglio that he could not hope to understand.

"Mrs. Simms, the Doctor will see you now," the receptionist said, abruptly ending Jimmy's reflections. His mother moved towards the door. Upon reaching it, she looked back and gave him a tentative smile that gave way to her usual troubled expression. She continued to watch him for a moment and then she turned the handle, stepping inside.

3

Some fifteen minutes later, Jimmy's mother emerged from the office. Upon later reflection, it was at that exact moment he first suspected that there was something wrong. She was smiling when she stepped through the door. For the average person this would have been neither alarming nor perplexing, but for Mrs. Simms this was a wondrous rarity indeed. Mrs. Simms' life had not allowed her many occasions to smile. It was the quality of the smile that disturbed Jimmy the most. His mother looked as if she had been hypnotized or enraptured.

"Jimmy, the doctor would like to see you now. Oh, you're going to like her. She's such a lovely woman." she crooned. He could honestly not remember her ever displaying so much enthusiasm about anything. It was ironic how the roles had been reversed. Now it was Jimmy who gave his mother a troubled look. He slid off of his seat and moved towards the door. At once his mind leapt into life, pulsing in a way that he had never before experienced. He spared one last look at his mother. She was sitting on the bench, staring into space, still wearing her strange new smile. Shaking his head in amazement, he opened the door and slipped inside.

Initially, he thought that the lights had been turned out and the blinds drawn. The room was totally black and he couldn't see anything. Then with dawning horror, it occurred to him that this was how his mind's light detector was receiving signals from the room's other inhabitant. The signal was so intense that it obscured his normal vision. His fear was raised to an even higher level when a sickening smell assailed his nostrils. It was sweet, yet fetid, and it made him want to gag. He felt his stomach rising and he fought to keep it down. Two disembodied red dots were floating in the depths of the darkness and he correctly guessed that they were eyes. He was in the room with a creature of pure and unadulterated evil. He tried to scream, but his throat had closed to the size of a pin hole. Only a thin sigh escaped his lips.

His keeper spoke to him, "Oh God, Jimmy, there's a monster in here. Oh God!"

He had never heard fear in the keeper's voice before and this very nearly caused him to turn and run. He reached behind himself, trying to grasp the door handle without taking his eyes off of the two floating dots. He groped in the darkness, but could not find the handle.

"Jimmy, don't run. If you do, you're dead. If you give this thing any indication that you know what it is, it will come for you later. Close your mind. Block it out!" He had never been so afraid in his entire life, but there was an unarguable prudence to this advice and he knew that he would have to try to follow it.

"Hello Jimmy, won't you come over here and sit down," a voice issued from the general direction of the two floating dots. The voice was rather deep for a woman; husky and melodious. Though Jimmy did not grasp the concept this huskiness gave the voice an arousing sort of sensuality. It was, in fact, quite beautiful - not the voice one would expect a monster to have. The blackness began to give way to a milky gray and that in turn, gave way to the normal world. He wasn't sure what he had expected to see, but it wouldn't have vaguely resembled what materialized before him. She sat there behind the desk, regarding him with a slightly bemused expression. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen or indeed ever believed could exist. Her hair was jet black and cascaded over her shoulders in a spill of loose curls that was breathtaking. Her face was exquisitely structured in a perfect blend of ridges and valleys. Its perfection was highlighted by two gold flecked, dark brown eyes that had the power to beguile anyone who might gaze into them.

"Are you feeling quite all right?" she inquired. Her bewitching eyes were watching him closely with a steady, penetrating gaze. He felt a strong desire to squirm under its intensity. She stood up and came around the desk, stopping only three feet from where he stood.

"Is something the matter?" She repeated. He could see no sympathy in her amber eyes only dawning suspicion.

"No Ma'am," he replied and even managed to offer up a shaky smile. She smiled in return and the black light in his head began to flicker again. There was something frighteningly predatory about that smile. She came closer still and he could smell her perfume, a mixture of Sandalwood and Jasmine. The fragrance was subtle, not like the industrial strength stuff that his mother wore. She was very tall, being five foot, nine inches, and her black slacks and high collared black satin blouse contributed to the appearance of imposing stature. She reached out and placed a hand upon his shoulder. He trembled imperceptibly, but allowed himself to be led to her desk.

"We're going to be friends, I trust. Jimmy, would you like that? She asked. Since he had first entered the room, she had not blinked; had not stopped her relentless scrutiny of him.

"Yes, I...I would," he stammered. She smiled again and for just an instant, he imagined that he saw a forked, snakelike tongue twisting between her pearl white teeth. He gave the door a longing glance over his shoulder. Perhaps fear had distorted the room's dimensions, but now that door appeared to be a long ways off. He looked again at the still smiling face. The mouth was generous and the lips were marvelously formed, curving perfectly as if drawn by an artistically inclined mathematician. While the effect was stunning, it only served to enhance the impression of a predatory animal; a panther perhaps, or even a jaguar.

"Jimmy, I've been reading your file. Dr. Elderberg seems to think that you have a great deal of trouble communicating your feelings. Do you feel that is true?" she queried. He tried to formulate an answer to this, but found that he could not. He would be unable to answer without discussing the light and how it cautioned him about the intentions of the people that he met. In a way, he chose to avoid people because of the images they projected. Often these images confused and sickened him.

At that moment, the first psychic artillery shell pounded into the battlements of his mind. A voice, ripe with hatred and rage, thundered, "Is it that you can't understand or that you don't choose to, you little cocksucker?"

White hot pain flared in his head, causing him to wince. He clamped his teeth down on his lower lip to prevent himself from screaming. When he was able to regain his composure, he saw that a new expression had come onto her face. It was an intermingling of surprise and understanding.

"I'd like to try to help you if you'll allow me to do so," she continued. He merely sat there watching her, unable to speak. A small ulceration had appeared on her cheek. It pulsed and grew, until the skin ruptured, spewing pus everywhere. Yellow fluid began to ooze from the laceration. It ran down her cheek, directly into her mouth. She continued to speak to him, as if completely oblivious to this development. He was unable to drag his eyes away from the festering wound that had opened on her face. Then, her entire face began to erupt in similar pustules. As each ulceration gave up its' load of pus and fluid, white maggots pushed their way through the ruined flesh. Her entire face was going through a rapid decomposition. Her beautiful eyes fell back into the skull and her hair began to fall out in clumps. He grasped the arms of his chair, feeling that he was only seconds away from vomiting.

"It's only an illusion, Jimmy," his keeper whispered. "She's trying to draw you out, just look down." so he did. _'Oh please make it stop!_ ' he entreated his keeper.

"I can't. She's strong... too strong. These things are just for show - she won't hurt you." At least not now, Jimmy thought to himself. He looked up at her and the illusion was gone, replaced by the usual facade of perfection.

"Are you afraid to speak to me?" she asked.

"No...no...it's just... I'm not feeling very good," he replied. "Nowhere near as bad as you'll feel when I'm through with you, you little fuck." came the psychic counter.

She rose in a fluid movement and came around the desk once again. She sat before him on the edge of her desk. "You're a special child. I can see that, but I suspect that you've never let anyone else glimpse your real self, your unique gift?"

"I don't think I know what you mean."

"I think that you do," she retorted, placing both of her hands on his shoulders. He attempted to pull away, but her grip was powerful and she held him fast. She intensified her psychic assault, pounding him with a rapid fire barrage of horrifying images. The fabric of his mind felt as if it was being torn asunder and he was afraid that he would lose his sanity. He saw his mother being torn to pieces by a pack of jackals. This was replaced by a picture of his father being garroted. Finally, this gave way to a ghastly, vivid mental video in which he was being eaten alive. He could only catch brief glimpses of the thing feeding upon him, but his own agony was clearly embossed on his blood stained face. He screamed for a mercifully quick death, but his cries fell on deaf ears. When, at last, the picture show ended, he was choking and tears streamed down his face. Cynara relaxed her grip.

"I don't mean to upset you, Jimmy. We'll come to know each other better, in the next few sessions." Her voice was gentle and soothing, but her eyes were as cold and unfeeling as a January morning.

"Go and see your mother," she said. The sense of relief almost made him laugh out loud. He rose quickly and walked to the door.

"Oh, Jimmy, there is one other thing that I'd like to tell you," she called after him. He turned and saw that she was again seated behind her desk. Her hands were folded under her lovely chin and she was smiling.

"Yes, Ma'am?" he asked, afraid that she would call him back for another screening of some grotesque horror picture show.

"Do you remember the dark man, the one who chased you? He died screaming, Jimmy. Doesn't that please you?" she said "And you'll die screaming too, you little fuck!" the internal tormentor added.

A sudden wave of fury swept over the boy. Fury at the miserable life he was forced to endure; fury at the torment of a drunken father and at the terror to which he had just been subjected. Its power frightened him, but he was helpless to quell it. It rose up, focused through his internal transmitter and rocketed out towards the witch.

"FUCK YOU, BITCH!" his mind screamed. The impact of the blow snapped Cynara's head back. Her eyes widened until it seemed that they would fall out of their sockets. Her face was a mask of shock and agony that distorted her features until they seemed revoltingly ugly. When she recovered her composure, she looked at him with naked hatred in her blazing eyes. He smiled at her, opened the door and walked out of the office, leaving the beast to brood.

4

He had hurt her. She sat in the darkness, fighting the pain and the incredulity. She had not felt pain in nearly a century, since her dog dropping of a brother had struck her, all of those years ago. Oh but she had made him pay. She had made him plead for mercy, in the moments before she had killed him. The pain that he had inflicted was small in comparison to the agony that the whelp had visited upon her. She would extract a terrible price for that moment of suffering. She would conjure up a hell of pure agony, worse than any the human body and mind had ever imagined. Then she would imprison this impudent child there. The thought of this assuaged her pain, replacing it with the rapturous anticipation of the revenge she would extract.

Chapter Six: Let Slip the Dogs of War

1

The television screen had gone blank, save for the snow that fell on an electronic midnight world. An irritating crackle issued from the box, but went completely unnoticed by the room's sole occupant. Zved Neghev sat deep in thought, staring into the heart of the raging emotional hurricane that tore savagely through his insides. The video tape had just completed its second run and awaited rewinding, but Neghev merely sat there, staring. He was seeking to reconcile himself with the insanity that he had just suffered through. Try as he might, he could produce no logical justification for the butchery captured on the acetate.

Early yesterday morning, Fabrizzi had returned bearing a package of material that elaborated upon his earlier story and so he said, confirmed his allegations concerning this Simonovic.

"Major, I realize that you've seen a great deal of horror in your time, but I must warn you that this tape is quite graphic and disturbing even to the most hardened of men," the Bishop had said. Neghev chose to ignore the couched reproach. "I would like you to study this material thoroughly and come to terms with how you feel about what you will see. I don't wish to put any pressure upon you, but a certain amount of haste is required."

"Why?" Neghev asked.

The Bishop did not respond at first, instead he reached into his jacket's inner pocket. Neghev tightened. Each time that Fabrizzi withdrew his hand from that pocket, Neghev's internal gyroscope was knocked off level. It was a newspaper clipping this time. It related the details of a gruesome murder that had taken place in a town Neghev had never heard of. The name of the town was Semelar, Washington in the United States. Though it had not been confirmed by authorities, the article advanced the theory the murder may have been connected to a satanic ritual. Neghev was not surprised by this. On the contrary, in light of how things had developed in the last few days, this was almost to be expected.

"Doubtless this ties into everything," He remarked distantly.

"Of course. On September 12th, Cynara Simonovic assumed the directorship of the Semelar County Psychiatric Facility. Mere coincidence possibly, but it would not be baseless conjecture to assume there could be a connection between the two events.

"No, I suppose that you're right," Neghev said at last. It then occurred to him that he and this Simonovic, though they were half of a world apart, were being drawn together by the inexorable magnetic attraction of fate. "You're going to ask me to kill her, aren't you?"

Fabrizzi smiled, "I am a man of God, Neghev. I could never, in all good conscience, request that you commit murder in the name of the Lord. In the long, sorry history of organized religion too much bloodletting has been done in his name. I will ask, however, that you consider all of the evidence before you and then decide what course of action the situation warrants. The Bible instructs us to suffer not the witch. Major, perhaps this will serve as a guideline for your decision. But please be quick because something tells me this beast is hungry and it has selected this unsuspecting little town to be its feeding grounds."

With this, he left Neghev to consider the evidence and to decide what, if any, action he would take. Neghev had watched the Bishop from the window of his room as he walked through the streets of Rome. He had to admit that he admired the man. Admiration was something that he granted sparingly, but beneath the robes and pampered exterior, he could see a compassionate man who was doing his best to confront the evils of a twisted and demented world. His interpretation of evil was archaic, something from the dark ages, but at least it was genuinely felt. Sincerity, no matter how misplaced, was deserving of more than cynicism and derision.

He had spent the remainder of the day reading the material, trying to formulate a rationale for some of the things that had happened, both then and now. He couldn't. The most startling evidence had been the comparison between the Baroness' portrait and the Doctor's picture. Two things had struck Neghev; the first had been the woman's awesome beauty and the second, the resemblance that the picture bore to the portrait. To suggest a mere resemblance would have been a misrepresentation. Other than historical differences, the portrayed women had to be one and the same. To Neghev, it appeared that one might well have been painted from the other. He had arranged the two in juxtaposition and studied each for over an hour, unable to accept what his eyes were telling him. Still, he found it impossible to reconcile the woman's beauty with her alleged savagery. He had sat at a small desk and read through Morgan's diary. He had used a ruler and a yellow highlighter to underscore the more outstanding incidents of the madness. He was seeking a similarity in the patterns and styles of the killings of both times. The diary was a testimonial to the insanity of a demented woman living in an era when brutality was a standard tool for the aspiring tyrant. One passage drew him back, again and again. He was unable to decide whether the account was literal or mystical, at least in the eyes of a madman who fancied himself a sorcerer. He had read:

Tonight, the Goddess allowed me to witness one of the wonders of her universe. She is the power. It flows through her like a divine river and in the bittersweet waters of pain she is reborn to a higher form. She came to my chamber as the darkness descended and bid me to accompany her on a nocturnal prowl. I went willingly, feeling certain that something extraordinary was about to transpire. As events would unfold, I was not to be disappointed. The Goddess moves through the darkness like a specter; silently, swiftly and with a strong sense of purpose. The dark Gods are with her tonight, for the moon is lost behind large thunder heads and her passage goes undetected. We make our way through the countryside and I can feel an electric chill igniting my senses. Her very presence has lent a certain Gothic splendor to this night. The creatures of the darkness are all around us. I can see them. They stand quietly and view her coming with awe. A large black and gray wolf trots out of the trees. It licks the Goddess' hand and offers its throat to be stroked. She does this lovingly. She has a respect for these creatures, so unlike the contempt she feels for her pathetic human subjects.

Though I am not sure of her specific intention, it is impossible to ignore the predatory gleam in her eyes. She is on the hunt. Eventually we come to a clearing where a solitary man sits attending a camp fire. From our vantage point in the trees, I can see that this is a young man with dirty clothes and crude features; so brutish and ugly when compared to the aristocratic beauty of the Goddess. She raises a hand towards the heavens and in response, the flames of the peasant's camp fire leap into the air. They shoot a full ten feet into the night sky. The man topples backwards, landing upon his back with a startled cry. With a liquid flexing of her shoulders, the Goddess shrugs off her cape and steps into the clearing. As if on cue, the moon breaks through the clouds, illuminating her in a celestial spotlight. She moves slowly towards the peasant. He sees her and is at once struck with terror. She speaks, but her words are whispered and lost on the wind. Haltingly, as if drawn by some invisible leash, he crawls through the dirt, coming to a stop where she stands. Gently, she places a hand under his stubbly chin and raises his face until his eyes are staring into hers. What does he see there; perhaps the very heart of the universe? He is mesmerized and for a short time, his ugliness gives way to a sort of rugged good looks. Her magic is that formidable.

She tenderly strokes his exposed throat, granting him a dazzling smile; probably the most precious thing that he has ever been given in his entire miserable life. From where I stand concealed, I see a blue light...ever so faint...appear along the length of Cynara's fingers. Gradually, the light begins to intensify until it is very nearly blinding. Her fingers are undergoing a type of transmutation. The long, elegant bones are thinning and lengthening, while the nails are becoming sharper. When this transformation is complete, her right hand resembles a bird's talon. A slight tremor runs through her forearm and the talons flex puncturing the peasant's carotid artery. The pain snaps the beggar out of his malaise and he commences to struggle, but his efforts are ineffective as the Goddess lifts him from the ground. His feet kick and squirm a full six inches above the grass. Her seeking talons must have severed his vocal cords because, though he is trying to scream, no sound escapes his lips. The strength of the Goddess is absolutely incredible. She holds the man out before her, with an extended arm, exerting no apparent effort. He kicks and flails at her, making contact with both his hands and feet. The blows are powered by desperation and seem heavy, yet she seems not to notice as if they were the slaps of a small child. In time, his struggles diminish and finally cease altogether. Cynara continues to hold him aloft for another full minute. When she is satisfied that his life spark has been extinguished, she lets him fall to the ground. Her hand has reverted to its usual form, but this incident has led me to think that she may have no true form or more correctly, that she can assume whatever form she chooses.

She motions me into the clearing and I move quickly to her. I drape the black velvet cape over her shoulders and she bends over taking the corpse into her powerful arms. She straightens and carrying the body as if it were a bundle of dry twigs, begins to walk towards the castle.

More than an hour has passed since our return. She has instructed me to return to my chambers and await her summons. I linger in the darkness of my quarters, barely able to contain my excitement. I have long suspected that this woman possesses powers beyond all imagination and now even the wildest of suppositions has been confirmed. After an interminable wait, a servant knocks on my chamber door. She bids me to follow her, then silently turns and leads me into the depths of the castle. I try to engage her in conversation, but she remains silent. I was later to learn that she cannot speak. Cynara demands total subservience from all of her servants and to ensure this she has had the girl's tongue removed.

We reach the bottom of the stone stairway and it seems that the girl has led me to a dead end as we are confronted by a solid brick wall. The girl walks to the wall and commences running her palms over its rough surface. In the approximate centre of the wall she presses inward on a specific brick and the wall swings open with a loud click of tumblers. I am flabbergasted by this, for despite living within the walls of the castle for so long, I was unaware of this secret passage's existence. The girl beckons me on though she will go no further herself. On her face there is a mixture of dread and awe.

It is impossible to peer very far into the passageway, but I am able to discern another set of descending stairs. Looking back at the well lit corridor one last time, I begin to descend. In order to retain my balance, it is necessary to place the flat of my hand against the wall. Its surface is both cold and damp. Around the first curve of the stairway there is a lamp. Upon closer inspection, I can see that it is no ordinary lamp, but an incandescent blue crystal the likes of which I have never before seen. These lights are spaced at about twenty foot intervals and their faint glow makes the descent less treacherous. Finally, I reach the bottom of the staircase; there were two hundred and ten steps in all. These have led down into a cathedral like chamber that has been carved from the bedrock. It is difficult to fathom the amount of labour that must have been required to excavate this chamber. One of the most startling aspects of its construction is the fact that it is perfectly circular at floor level. It rises to a dome, which is capped by a section of blue crystal, similar to the ones used in the passage lights. This crystal has a diameter of nearly fifty feet and bathes the chamber in a subdued blue glow.

The floor of the chamber is composed of marble slabs, at the centre of which is a lavish alabaster bath. The tub is filled with boiling water, making it impossible to estimate its depth. The Goddess is standing on the far side of the pool and she gestures me forward. The amber flecks of her eyes seem to burn more brilliantly than ever in this eerie bluish light. On a small table behind her, five copper jugs are arranged in a neat line.

"You have served me well in your time here, Morgan. As a reward for your devotion, I shall give you a demonstration of the range of my powers. No human has ever witnessed this," she hesitated. "And lived. What you are about to see is the true embodiment of the dark nature of my soul."

With this, she turns and taking the first of the copper jugs, pours its contents into the boiling waters. The liquid is dark red and I recognize it to be blood. The blood billows out in red clouds and while she pours the contents of each jug into the water, it turns uniformly red. "The blood, Morgan, is the life force and it holds hidden powers that await release. It is the river of life, which flows to the gateway of wonder. Each drop of blood that I take enriches me and augments my powers. My power grows at a geometric rate; at times I feel barely able to contain it."

She steps forward to the very edge of the alabaster bath. She is clad in a black garment that clings lovingly to every curve of her body. Her long black hair is tied behind her, with a black velvet lash. She reaches back and undoes the lash, letting the hair spill over her shoulders. She tosses her head in a gesture that is at once arrogant and extremely seductive. The garment is a wrap secured by a single black sash. Cynara undoes the sash knot with deft fingers and then pulls the sash away. With a subtle shrug of her shoulders, the robe falls away into a pool around her ankles.

She stands before me, completely naked, while I can only stare with undisguised adoration, feeling my manhood stir and my lust boil up until I am unable to conceal the desire both on my face and in my loins. The Goddess sees this as well and seems pleased yet not surprised by my reaction.

"You are aroused by what you see, Morgan?" she says this more as a statement than a question. The scarlet heat that has flushed my cheeks as well as the engorged insistence of my penis against my trousers makes the truth of this impossible to deny.

"Yes," I reply thickly. The woman is the epitome of physical perfection. Her face, as I have always known, is a masterpiece and is splendidly complimented by an exquisite body. The neck is thin and swan like; a blend of fragility and grace that is totally enchanting. The remainder of her body is extremely well muscled. Each limb is cut by striations that ripple and dance beneath her flawless alabaster skin. Each movement results in a hypnotic expansion and contraction, as if her body is being controlled by some celestial choreographer. Her shoulders are square and proud, capped by muscles that resemble sculpted granite.

She remains this way, regarding me with her unsettling, relentless gaze, while I stand trembling at the heat that is demanding release. She is unabashed by her nudity, in fact she seems to revel in it. Vanity thy name is woman, my mind whispers, unbidden.

"And arrogance, thy name is man!" she snarls so sharply that I gasp, unable to disguise my surprise and fear. "Morgan, did you really believe that you could shelter your thoughts from me."

The impact of this revelation has left me speechless and I cannot reply, only stand paralyzed like a mute. "Feminine vanity is a concept created only in the minds of men. A vain woman is a challenge, a thing to be conquered; to be humbled. Each man feels that he is ideally suited to administer this lesson in humility." Her lips have curved into a humorless, sardonic smile. "In this way, each man sows the seeds of his own downfall and throws open the flood gates of temptation and ultimately, corruption."

There is an intrinsic truth in her words that history has confirmed again and again, since the dawn of civilization. With this pronouncement, she begins to move around the edge of the blood pool. My heart picks up the thunder beat once more and soon is pounding out a timpani solo of anticipation. Her movements, which would seem like slow exaggerated posturing on the part of any other woman, seem feline and primitively sexual. Her breasts are firm and large, peaked by richly colored brown nipples. They tremble ever so slightly with each step raising my internal temperature to nearly intolerable levels. Her stomach is taut and flat, crossed by horizontal bands of muscle. She comes to a halt within arms reach and places her hands on her full hips, which contrast so well with her waspish waist. Each movement and facial expression is a masterpiece of theatrical eroticism.

"Though I have other forms, it is my choosing to be the temptress. It is an image that I have refined, since the earliest days of my life. This is the physical manifestation of my power." She tenderly runs the flat of her palm over the curve of her shoulder and then down the slope of her right breast. Her hand applies a delicate pressure to the flesh and, in the wake of its passing, leaves an invitingly erect nipple. I am unable to contain the soft moan that escapes my lips and the strength in my legs begins to ebb away. Yet the notion of actually touching her is unthinkable. She understands this and is amused by my predicament.

"I feel the strength of your desire, Morgan. The heat radiates from your loins in palpable waves. Even you, who have some understanding, are unable to resist the urging of your physical being. What men view to be their greatest strength is indeed their greatest weakness. I have come to understand this and though I have other methods to achieve my ends, I prefer to exploit this particular advantage over all others."

She grasps my hand and leads me back around the pool to where her satin robe lies forgotten on the marble floor. I am mesmerized by the poetic motion of her walk. Again she turns to face me, the glory of her warm breasts only inches from my chest.

"Remove your shoes, Morgan," she commands and I comply without further hesitation. Her fingers nimbly unfasten my shirt buttons and when each button has been undone, she slowly pushes the shirt over my shoulders. It falls soundlessly to the floor like a shed skin. Her index finger traces a path from my chest to the flat of my stomach. A wave of a finger and my trousers fall away to join my discarded shirt. My manhood stands erect and exposed, begging for the pleasure of her favor. She moves closer and her rigid nipples press into my chest, igniting an electric sensation that fires every nerve ending in my body. With her arm wrapped around my waist, she guides me down the steps, into the blood pool. Though the thought of being submerged in this should be repulsive, I find myself aroused by its pleasant warmth. We are of an equal height and when she reaches the bottom, the blood water comes up to mid thigh. Its warmth gives rise to a pungent vapor that is both heady and stimulating.

The Goddess encircles my waist with her left arm and draws me to her. Our bodies touch full length as she brings her lips closer to my ears. "You are to experience two worlds tonight, Morgan. One you will feel and the other you will see." There was a pause and then a husky whisper. "Touch me."

Though my mind feels incapable, my body requires no further invitation. My hands seek her buttocks, her thighs and the delicious contours of her breasts. A small part of me marvels at the temerity of my behavior. Cupping one breast, I raise the nipple to my lips and encircle it with my hungry mouth. Cynara responds to this by arching her back and thrusting her hips forward. Her womanhood grasps the length of my penis, unleashing a sensation which causes my knees to buckle. Her hips begin to undulate in a slow rhythm that causes my breath to come in ragged gasps. Her eyelids are half closed and her mouth is half open, giving her a distracted look that peaks my masculine pride. I begin to thrust back with long, hard strokes that send her backwards against the edge of the pool. Both of my hands grasp her breasts and maul and manipulate them with no concern for whatever pain she might be feeling. The blood engorged nipples swell until I am no longer able to resist their temptation and attack them with my mouth once again. I force her back onto the cold marble and thrust into her; seeking her essential core with each stroke. Her smooth firm thighs encircle me and exert a tremendous pressure upon my back. I continue my relentless assault upon her womanhood seeking dominance and submission.

Eventually, I begin to tire, but I am determined not to relent until she loses control and begs for release; until she is totally within the throes of ecstasy. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster, she begins to call my name as she thrashes her head from side to side. Her eyes are squeezed shut now and she is gasping. She rakes her fingers down my back, tearing away flaps of skin, through which thin lines of blood trickle. I am oblivious to the pain this causes and as her passion grows, I feel only the need to propel her to new heights. She lays back her head and screams and in my mind's eye, I can visualize the look of triumph and insanity that must be cast upon my face. Her cries rise up, to be echoed off of the cathedral ceiling and reverberate back to us. That cry is the visceral testimony to my dominance, but it is not enough. I will only be satisfied by total surrender. I completely stop my rhythm and she moans in frustration. Her beautiful face is flushed and her chest heaves. Her tongue traces the outline of her lips in slow rotations. "Beg, Cynara."

"Morgan, Morgan, Oh Morgan please grant me release!" she pleads. Her voice is fraught with desperation and her surrender is total. It drives me beyond the limits of control, where the only real priority is release. My hands cup her breasts and push them upwards until the skin is stretched to its limit. The tempo of my thrusting becomes frenzied and her body begins to quake and spasm as she is overcome by an orgasm. Her contraction is so violent that it induces my own release in a deluge. The pressure in my groin swells to an exquisite level of pain and in a flash of white light that seers my mind, I am struck by the stellar brilliance of a revelation. Her words are the absolute truth and the seed that I am spilling into her is the incontrovertible evidence. Lust and the need to dominate, to control, are forces which may well rise up to enslave their user. This need becomes obsession and then a man becomes a slave to his own desire. From this it is no difficult task for a woman, such as Cynara, to mesmerize her pursuer with the promise of submission.

I open my eyes and she is watching me, with a cool assessing stare, so unlike the mask of distorted passion, that covered her face, only seconds ago. "Now you understand, Morgan. I weave a spell, a carnal tapestry that is designed to ensnare men of lust and pride. The intrinsic need to dominate serves as my greatest ally."

I step away from her, tired and somehow diminished. In contrast she rises, seeming even more intimidating and substantial than ever before. "Mark these lessons well, Morgan, for if you are to serve me effectively, you must come to comprehend precisely what I am."

She fixes me with a flinty stare and says softly "And now you will service me."

She moves me slowly into the centre of the bath. Then, placing her hands upon my shoulders, she exerts a gentle downward pressure. I lack the will to resist and fall to my knees before her. She looks down upon me with her cold remorseless eyes and I feel all of my confidence drain away, replaced by a sense of worthlessness and inadequacy. She cradles the back of my neck and laces her fingers through my hair. She presses my face into her womanhood and now it is I who surrenders to her dominance. "Taste me, Morgan. Taste the essence of your master."

Slowly, tentatively at first, and then with growing hunger and relish, I concede to her wishes and time flows into a blend of darkness and sensation, until all conscious thought is gone.

Minutes give way to hours. The Goddess' sexual appetite is insatiable and her demands run the entire gamut of the sexual spectrum. I try to pleasure her, to the best of my abilities, but her desire seems to know no limits. When I have expended the last reserves of my energy, she pushes me onto my back, on the floor, where only hours ago she, herself, lay. "I have nothing left to offer, Cynara."

"Morgan, am I not the enchantress, the temptress? You still have much to learn." She bends forward and strokes my penis, with her tongue, raising it to its full length. She then sits astride me and lowers herself onto me. My mind equates the sensation more with being consumed than with being loved. I suspect that she is incapable of loving anything, save perhaps herself. She begins to move in long slow strokes, eliciting responses after I believed no further response to be possible. Clasping my wrists, Cynara moves my arms above my head and leans forward. Her large breasts sway gently with the rhythm of her motion. The teasing nipples are only inches from my mouth, yet when I attempt to kiss one, she moves away. With my arms pinioned above me, I am unable to reach her. This was an intentional affect and she repeats the maddening process again and again. She tantalizes and then denies, until a taste of her breast becomes the single most important thing in my world. Then she slows her movements until her rhythm is more of a suggestion of movement than a movement itself. Her eyes blaze, mocking me in my agony and, for a moment I am seized with a bright hatred for her.

"Now it is you who will beg me, dear Morgan," she whispers. She continues the slow gyrations and the repeated offering and denial. I try to retain control, but it is futile and so I scream, "Please Goddess!"

Again and again, until I am nearly hoarse. She smiles and begins to take me in earnest, lowering her breast to my mouth while furiously moving back and forth on my manhood. There is an explosion, first in my loins and then in my head. It feels as if my very soul is pouring out of me and into her. Perhaps this is exactly what is happening, for I feel that I have relinquished its possession and that she shall be its new keeper. She raises herself from me, wading back into the depths of the blood pool. Turning to face me, she says, "Now Morgan, I will allow you a glimpse at another aspect of my power."

She kneels into the pool. The water she displaces ripples off of the walls and back over her shoulders. A new light has started to burn in her eyes. Despite my weariness, I am fascinated by the intriguing possibility of some new wonder unfolding before me. She closes her eyes, lays back her head and submerges herself in the blood bath. I can feel a gathering of forces in the air; a thickening of the atmosphere within the chamber. The blue light begins to gutter and then rapidly flicker, until a strobe affect has been created. Then the light goes out altogether and the chamber is plunged into utter darkness. I lay still, not daring to move...wondering what is about to transpire. A low rumble, barely detectable to the ear, begins to rise from the floor. It swells until it shakes the chamber with its power, causing small pieces of plaster to fall from the ceiling around the crystal. The noise has become thunderous and painful to the ear. For one terrifying instant, I fear that the vibration will cause the entire chamber to collapse around us, but just as the noise reaches an intolerable level, the vibrations stop. In its aftermath there is only a charged silence and my intuition that something extraordinary is about to happen is stronger than ever. It occurs to me that several minutes have passed since Cynara submerged herself and the first seeds of panic take root in my stomach. I am about to call her name when the crystal pulses back to life. It burns more brightly than before and this is accompanied by an electric crackle. Instead of moving towards the pool, I scramble away on all fours. All at once, blue lightening arcs out of the crystal's centre, coming to ground in the blood bath. Its impact causes the witch's brew to geyser up and out onto the marble floor around the pool. The super heated droplets of blood vaporize the moment they touch the cold surface of the marble. The chamber fills with a fine red mist and the acrid aroma of burning blood. The mist has served to create a surreal setting for what is to come next.

The blue light begins to gutter again, ebbing and flaring in an odd rhythmic fashion. I watch this as though from the depth of a trance, until my mind grasps the one salient fact; the slow constant rhythm is that of a heart beat. Reluctantly, I move to the edge of the pool. Peering into its depths, I can see a vague outline, but the water is too translucent to identify any specific features. The liquid, which was once a deep crimson, has faded to a cerise although I am not sure why, I suspect that the thing within the water is absorbing the blood. The water begins to bubble vigorously, until huge bubbles are boiling to the surface, sending hot steam rising to the very ceiling of the chamber. Again, my instinct for self preservation prods me to move back from the pool. There is an abrupt explosion of water and light, as something breaks the surface. Almost immediately, the room is filled with the rancid smell of rotting meat.

This is too much for my frenzied nerves and I turn to flee the chamber. However, before I can reach the stone steps, a voice calls out to me, "Do not run, Morgan. If you do, you will forfeit your life. I must struggle to control the beast and your flight will incite it to attack, to feed."

The voice is high and insectile, but there are familiar aspects to it and I know it to be Cynara's. I slowly turn to face the Goddess, or more precisely, the thing that she has become. The desire to flee is balanced by a strong curiosity. The thing is standing in the centre of the pool and regarding me with bright yellow eyes. The eyes are bisected by vertical slashes that remind me of the eyes of a serpent. The head is misshapen as if it has been severely battered. Its face is dominated by a large mouth, filled with razor sharp incisors, through which a forked tongue occasionally snakes. It appears to be wracked by shudders which induce a twitching of the head and a blinking of the eyes.

"Oh, Oh I am hungry. The need is upon me. There is danger for you Morgan," it intones in a sibilant, quavering voice. It begins to emerge from the pool, allowing me a first glimpse of the body. It is truly repulsive to behold. The legs are long and spindly, but the torso by contrast, is squat and powerful, giving the creature an incongruous look. Even its skin is a contradiction; portions are transparent and gelatinous and others are an opaque angry red. The common ingredient that is shared by both types of tissue is the collection of suppurating sores that covers both. These sores expel a copious amount of yellow fluid as though the body were purging an internal poison. Both its feet and hands are tipped by long, sharp nails which seem designed specifically to rip and tear. These claws click and clatter on the marble, as she moves across the floor to where I stand. It comes to a stop ten feet in front of me, but even at this distance, my nostrils are nearly overwhelmed by the charnel house stench of its breathe. I grimace and the beast notices this. It bellows, "Does this form offend you, Morgan?"

"No," but this was a rather ineffective lie.

"This is the essence of my soul. If you prefer, it is my body turned inside out to reveal its true core." Its hands shoot out with the speed of a cobra and grip my shoulders, pulling me to within inches of it. "Some would believe that I serve the blackness, but I am blackness itself, transmogrified by the powers of the womb."

It raises a scaled hand and gestures towards the pool from where it came. "That is the womb of life, Morgan. It is the element by which my soul is born into this world. Those waters are the amniotic fluids necessary to effect the change. It contains the two staples, the seed and the blood, which sustain life. The intermingling of the two ingredients spawns new life and growth."

Then she is wracked by another series of spasms. She lays back her head and keens. The cry is primitive. No, it is older than primitive. It is primordial. "Every living creature has its needs. My selected form has granted me a mastery of those needs." It paused, shivered again, then added, "But I have not. The hunger is upon me, in every fiber of my being. The time is growing short and I must feed."

"Cynara, what...what is the catalyst for life in these changes? What is the blue light?" The monster responds to my question by gazing longingly at the crystal which is embedded in the ceiling over our heads. "It is the power of the beast."

"The... beast?" I stammer.

Her head snaps back towards mine and she (it) fixes me with a stare that is malignant with hate. For a brief, frightful second, I am afraid that it is about to strike me down. "The beast, imbecile - my master and yours - the creature from which my kind was created. It is the beast we will turn to for guidance."

Again the monster grimaces and it is a long time before it comes back to itself. "Listen carefully, Morgan. If you wish to live, walk slowly towards the stairs. Do not turn your back until you can no longer see me. When you reach the main hall, go directly to your chambers and lock your door. It is imperative that you do not come out until I personally come to find you."

In the span of a second, I gaze into her eyes and see two beasts at war there. One is primitive and mindless, the other is intelligent. It is evident that the primitive beast is about to seize control. Slowly, I begin to back pedal. When I am at the stairs, I start to move up, never taking my eyes from the monster. Only when it has been lost from sight, do I turn and hurry back into the main corridor. The coppery taste of fear is in my mouth as, at any second, I expect to hear footfalls on the stairs below me. I emerge into the hall and close the brick work, relieved to be away from the ineffable horror. I pull fresh air into my lungs in great gasps, trying to calm my thundering heart. Back in my quarters, I quickly bolt and latch the heavy wooden door. Feeling somewhat more secure, I lay down upon my bed to contemplate the wonders that I have just beheld.

2

Neghev stared at the final page, not really seeing the words printed there. He pondered the implications of what he had just read and found it impossible to view the excerpt as anything more credible than the rambling of a seriously deranged mind. Was Morgan a madman, bewitched by a temptress? Was all of this an elaborate fantasy conceived by a man in search of something to worship? Or, by some strange chance, was all of this real? Neghev theorized that Morgan was indeed deranged; his actions confirmed this. Conversely, he also believed that portions of the account were at least reasonable facsimiles of what had happened; such as the murder of the peasant and the subsequent sexual encounter.

What of the last segment? What of Cynara's supposed transmutation? Neghev could see no other way to classify this portion of the story other than to say that it was utter lunacy-induced fabrication. He was a man controlled by tight limits. The world, from his perspective, was defined and classified by very specific boundaries. The idea that Cynara Simonovic was a demon went far beyond these boundaries into the twilight zone of lunacy. It was much saner to dismiss this idea as madness. A small part of Neghev's mind spoke against this. The minion's tale had been lucid...his words clear and precise. Neghev had almost been able to smell the boiling blood, as the monster emerged from the water. Zved had an elementary grasp of psychology and understood that the stranger the delusion, the more vivid it became in the person's mind. Surely this was the case with Morgan's account.

Neghev had spent the final portion of the day reading through the reports and press clippings in the background package. He concluded that most of the evidence against Cynara was circumstantial and highly speculative. The conclusions drawn from this evidence were extremely shaky. It was impossible to deny, however, that the portrait and the picture were so similar that there was no discernible difference between the two. In addition to this, Neghev had been given five separate newspaper accounts of murders that may have involved satanic rituals. Dr. Cynara Simonovic was a practicing psychiatrist in each of the cities where these murders had taken place. No connection had ever been established between Simonovic and the murders. Furthermore, she had never even been considered a suspect in any of the murders. Five incidents, in Neghev's mind, far exceeded the limits of coincidence. He had always prided himself on paying meticulous attention to detail; being able to discern real facts from baseless assumption. He had long relied upon this instinct to keep him alive. Common sense dictated that the information Fabrizzi had left with him, allowed too much scope to draw any firm conclusions concerning Cynara's culpability in these murders. On the other hand, a newly activated part of his mind told him that, not only was this woman responsible, but that she fully intended to commit more. In some ways, this new voice frightened him because it added an unknown ingredient to his normal and previously reliable thinking process.

He applied his analytical talents to each possible scenario, only to dismiss them all as improbable. He finally came to conclude that, if this Cynara Simonovic was involved with these deaths, it was only in the form of a 'copy cat killer'. It was possible that Simonovic had discovered her resemblance to the Baroness and being deranged, had decided to follow in her footsteps; to expand her legend, as it were. All that remained to be seen was the video tape, but Neghev had decided to leave that until the morning, feeling too tired to properly gauge its significance.

3

That had been yesterday before the video tape and the horror that had been captured there. He had gone to sleep the previous night, feeling that he was finally getting a handle on a confusing and frightening situation. He had risen and after his usual Spartan breakfast, decided to play the videotape. After completing the first run, he rewound the tape and played it through again. His mind, his eyes and all of his senses screamed a denial of the atrocity which played itself out on the television screen. After the second play, he was forced to concede that what he had viewed was real.

As the newspaper article had stated, the tape captured, with brutally graphic detail, the ritualistic burning of a small boy. The similarity between the tape and his dream of two nights before struck him like a sledgehammer. Had the dream been nothing more than a nocturnal re-enactment of the newspaper articles or had it been more of a presentiment?

He had watched the six figures going about their work of horror. As the article contended, there appeared to be another person directing the course of this ritual. Frequently, the six would look towards the camera as if seeking guidance from some unseen director. The sound track seemed to be dominated by a high buzzing. On occasion, this buzzing seemed to have a specific pattern. Neghev considered the possibility that the tape had been electronically altered to protect the maker from possible identification. He dismissed this because, after having spent years dealing with surveillance operations, he had never heard of such a scrambling device. His mind offered the obvious question; was the person directing this ritual Cynara Simonovic? His new found mental companion whispered that it was. Neghev, the old Neghev, could not be so certain. It did not really matter because, sitting there watching the electronically generated snow, the Israeli had decided that an atonement must be made for this despicable act. He sincerely regretted that the six had committed suicide as he would have taken great pleasure in killing them all as slowly and painfully as possible.

Neghev had always viewed violence and murder as crude tools, employed to serve a purpose, however ignoble that purpose might be. There was no logical justification to what he had just witnessed. The action had been conceived and executed in cold blood simply for the satisfaction of doing it and this was a concept completely alien to the Israeli's inured sensibilities. It seemed so difficult for humans to help others, but such a simple matter for them to denigrate everything around them. He failed to see how murdering a child or bombing a school bus could serve to advance some higher cause. Experience had taught him however that a mind caught up in any type of fanaticism did not see things in a normal light. The fanatic saw blood as the substance that oiled the machine that would take them down the road to Utopia. Neghev saw spilling blood as nothing but a waste. He had no burning passion of his own. He was not consumed by any cause and was glad to be free of such bondage. He viewed fanaticism as a type of pestilence and himself as a pest controller. His function, over the past six years, had been to remove the nastier threats that plagued his country. He suspected that his detachment had been a great contributor to his success in 'threat control'.

Neghev had not always been such a cold pragmatist. In truth, he was not one now. He was beyond this. He was, in fact, dead. This is to say, he still functioned physically and mentally, but his heart and soul were as devoid of life as a winter's corpse. His condition was a state of mind that had proved extremely beneficial. He knew where such meanderings would lead him, but was powerless to stop them. The death of his wife and daughter had been the juncture at which his spiritual life had ended and his non life had begun. Even now, guilt rose up and threatened to overwhelm him. When he allowed himself to think about it, he was shocked that he had not committed suicide. He reached forward and switched off the television set. He laid back his head and closed his eyes, giving himself to the memories and the hell that accompanied them.

4

It had been a hot, dry summer. One destined to become a mile stone in Neghev's life. Neghev had been posted with an intelligence team stationed in the occupied west bank. His specific mission had been to collect information on the various terrorist organizations operating in the settlement. He was then to assess this information and take the appropriate action. Taking the appropriate action meant eliminating the more active terrorist groups. How many 'threats' had he removed? He had quite honestly lost count and the actual number had ceased to matter. Or so he believed. He only sanctioned terrorists who specialized in attacking civilian targets. This allowed him to maintain some illusion of self respect.

He rarely had an opportunity to spend time with his family and cherished every chance that he was granted. The month of July had been particularly beautiful and extremely hectic. Neghev wondered if the weather was somehow conducive to terrorist activity. During the month, there had been seven bombings and five terrorist attacks, resulting in thirteen Israeli deaths. He had personally eliminated six PLO terrorists in counter raids. His physical and mental abilities were being taxed to their limits and Neghev realized that he was in need of some relaxation time. Being the sector supervisor, he would feel derelict in his duties if he were to go home to Tel Aviv for the weekend. Patterns seemed to indicate that the civilian bombing campaign was about to intensify. Still, he sorely missed his wife and daughter.

Later, he would spend long, miserable hours agonizing over why he had ignored his better judgment and decided to bring his family to the settlement for a week. He could vividly recall the telephone conversation he had with his wife, Galina.

"But Zved is it safe to come over there? I've heard some terrible stories on the radio about bombings and riots. Will Delia and I be safe?" she had asked. There was poorly concealed fear in her voice.

"Yes darling," he had assured her. "A lot of what you're hearing has been greatly exaggerated." A part of his mind screamed out at him, ' _Liar, what are you doing?_ ' He ignored that question and in the terrible clarity of hindsight, he would always remember her reply.

"Well, we'll come then. If you think it's safe, then I'm sure we will be all right."

He hung up and was assailed by a premonition. Call her back. Tell her not to come. Something terrible is going to happen here. He had not and two days later, Galina and Delia had stepped off of the government helicopter into what was referred to as the Devil's crucible. Delia had run to her father and threw her arms around his neck. He, in turn, had swept her up in his arms and spun her in circles until they were both dizzy.

"What about me, don't I get a hug?" his wife had asked. He turned to her and could see the concern in her eyes. He knew that she had been hesitant about coming here and had only reluctantly agreed after he had assured her that they would be safe. It was a promise he intended to keep. He moved over to where she stood and swept her up in a great hug, spinning her around as well.

"Stop it. Put me down, you overgrown kid," she squealed, but he was heartened to hear that delight had replaced her initial anxiety. Both silently agreed that they had been separated for far too long. They had spent the rest of the day together; trying to remember, trying to forget. Delia talked endlessly about her friends, about boys (and she's only eleven, Neghev thought) and about everything. Her enthusiasm was infectious and both Zved and Galina could feel some of the tension begin to ease. Later that night, after they had made love, they lay together, silently staring into the darkness of their room, simply enjoying each other's warmth.

"How have you been, Zved, really?" she had asked. The question seemed casual enough, but he sensed that it was leading up to something much larger. He braced himself, trying to anticipate the direction the discussion was about to take.

"I've been fine," he replied noncommittally.

"Have you really? I wonder? Zved, I've been reading the papers and I know what has been happening here. More to the point, I know what kind of work you do here. It has to be taking some kind of toll on you and I don't mean just physically, but mentally as well. I'm afraid that even if you survive, you'll come back changed; cynical or, even worse, cold. I want you back just the way that you were," she said, so vehemently that Neghev actually flinched.

"Galina, I'm not going to change and I sure as hell have no intention of dying. Things here are nowhere near as bad as the media portray them to be," he lied. He had never lied to her before and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

"I'm not a child, Neghev," she flared at him. "So don't patronize to me. I have eyes and I can see that hatred on the faces here. The Arabs despise us and they'll never be happy until we're all dead or gone." She gripped his forearm, her long nails digging into his flesh. Even in the darkness, he could feel the heat of her eyes upon him. "I know what it means to be a Jew."

He couldn't think of an appropriate reply for this, so he remained silent. After awhile, she said, "Zved please, I'd like you to consider a transfer. Delia and I need you and more than just every now and then. You've done enough for your country, it's time to come home now and do something for your family."

The reproach in her voice angered him. "Galina, both you and Delia are the most important people in my life, but I'm needed here. Innocent people are dying every day and the situation is not going to get any better any time soon. Someone has to protect our people and because of the choices I've made of my own volition, that obligation has fallen to me."

"Why? Why does it have to be you?" she countered, on the verge of tears.

"Because I'm good at what I do," he replied softly, without a hint of arrogance. He wondered, not for the first time, if being a proficient killer could ever be something to warrant pride.

"Oh God, Zved, can't you see that this will never be over. As long as we are here, there will always be bloodshed, violence and death. This whole place reeks of it. Death has found its way into everything, even you." Her words were impassioned, tortured, grieving. He could hardly tolerate her anguish, primarily because he knew that she was right. There would never be harmony here, only chaos and hatred. Eventually, everyone who lived here would be consumed by the ravenous appetite of violence. The need to strike out became irresistible and after a time, the reasons no longer mattered. Whatever goodness or innocence that a person possessed was bleached out of them, until their humanity was gone. This was the unequivocal truth, of course, and so he said, "Galina, I'll be totally honest with you. The PLO in this area is in the process of mounting a major terrorist offensive; bombings, assassinations, rioting and the like. It is imperative that these people be stopped or the death toll will be dreadful. We've eliminated a good portion of these terrorists, but there is still a great deal of work to be done. I promise you this, Galina, once we've got the lid on this offensive, I'll apply for a transfer home."

In his heart, he believed that he would do exactly that, but a portion of his mind whispered words such as fool and never.

"Really, Zved, will you really do this for me?"

"Yes, Galina, I promise," he replied, perhaps already sensing the hollowness of his vow. Only a dramatic change in the prevailing political climate could relinquish him from his duty and only a fool could believe that such a drastic reversal of fortune was in the works.

"I love you and don't want anything to change that or to take you away from me." She kissed him, there in the darkness, and nestled against him. A short time later, he could hear the soft sound of her breathing and feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. She had fell asleep, content in the belief that a normal life awaited her somewhere in the near future. For Neghev, however, sleep would not come. He stared vacantly into the night, grappling with the conflicting demands of a wife, whom he loved dearly, and a country that desperately needed his services. He could see no easy road leading through the future, nor could he anticipate the events that would soon banish him to the land of the living dead.

5

The next day had dawned beautifully, promising pleasant temperatures and clear blue skies. The desert air was fresh and invigorating and with his family around him, Neghev felt happier than he had in weeks. Galina seemed rejuvenated, having shed the tensions of the previous day. Delia seemed overjoyed by the prospect of spending a whole day with both of her parents. They decided to drive into the shop district of the town to have lunch and shop. During lunch, they talked, laughed and traded anecdotes about their lives. They also made plans for the future. Later, through the windows of hindsight, Neghev felt that the day was more toned to a farewell than to a reunion.

After lunch, they decided to spend the rest of the afternoon browsing through the shops and bazaars, in the settlement. The streets were alive with the bustle of ordinary people going about the activities of their normal lives, despite their cultural differences. As a passing thought, it occurred to Neghev that the town seemed more serene than it at any time since this latest bombing offensive began. The gentle breeze carried a mixture of smells and sounds that intrigued and tantalized the senses. It was almost possible for the Israeli to forget where he was and perhaps even who he was. After an hour and a half of nonstop shopping, Galina and Delia had accumulated a whole array of souvenirs. Neghev had to his credit, one pair of tired feet. At exactly two forty five the small beeper on Neghev's belt began to squawk, indicating that he was required by his intelligence officer.

"Damn," he muttered to himself. Galina gave him a concerned glance and he hastily added, "Just the office calling for a routine check in."

This was a bold faced lie, but Neghev had told it to her, hoping to allay her worry. He reflected that it was now the second one that he had told her since yesterday. Each successive lie seemed to come that much easier. He added a gleaming smile and said, "Wait here for a moment. I'll find a pay phone and call in."

He walked quickly across the street and then about one hundred feet along it, to a phone box that was mounted on a utility pole. He reached into his pocket in search of the appropriate change. He lifted the phone and cradled the handset between his ear and shoulder. When he turned back to catch a glimpse of Galina and Delia, he saw that the scene had shifted subtly and that something was horribly wrong. The Arabs in the crowd seemed to be moving inconspicuously away from the shop, where his wife and daughter awaited his return. And then he saw it thirty yards up the street, a battered black Citroën was idling noisily and the Arabs were giving the car a wide birth. From where he stood, he could not make out the driver's features, but the person looked rather small behind the wheel. It was clear that the driver was a child of no more than fourteen. Neghev let the phone drop. It dangled, unheeded, by his feet. He stepped clear of the phone box and cupping his hands to his mouth, screamed to his wife and daughter. His warning was lost in the general din of the street.

At that precise moment, the car's driver gunned the engine into life. The vehicle shot forward with a whine and a screech of tires. Neghev stood transfixed as it plunged its way through the group of shoppers, heading for the bazaar where his wife and daughter continued to shop, unmindful of the disaster that was about to befall them. The victims, who had fallen in the wake of the passing car, began to scream in terror and pain. The car continued to bulldoze through the pedestrians, killing most before they even realized what was happening. It rocketed into the shop, destroying the wooden facade and bringing down the awning in the process. The death machine rolled through the store, cutting a swath through the shoppers and displays, until it slammed into the rear wall of the building. The rear wall was made of brick and consequently, much more substantial than the flimsy store front. When the car slammed into the unyielding brick, the impact triggered the detonator, causing the plastic explosive to ignite. This sent a bright orange fireball through the shop and back out into the street. It was accompanied by a barrage of shrapnel that sliced and gouged its way through everything in its path. The explosive generated so much force that several shards of glass embedded themselves into a utility pole on the opposite side of the street.

During the few seconds that it had taken the car to complete its run of destruction, Neghev had began to rush towards the shop. However, when the car exploded, the resulting concussion blew Neghev right off of his feet. The Israeli landed flat on his back with bone jarring force. His head hit the pavement with a crack and it was several seconds before he was able to roll over and rise to his feet. When he did, his balance threatened to betray him as the world swam in and out of focus. When things finally resolved themselves into one image, he was confronted by a hellish, nightmare vista of death and destruction. Bodies and rubble lay strewn everywhere. Moans and cries came from the wounded and fire ravaged the shop that only seconds ago had been so filled with life.

Surprisingly, Neghev did not run towards the shop. He had witnessed enough destruction of this kind to realize that nothing could have survived such a blast. He moved through the carnage, oblivious to the pleas for help and the bodies around him. He saw Delia lying face down on the sidewalk. He bent down and, gripping her by the shoulders, turned her over. His eyes confirmed what his mind already knew; Delia was dead. Her face was gone, replaced by a grotesque mass of fragmented bone and ruined skin. Small bits of glass winked obscenely at him. He turned her back onto her stomach and gently laid her back onto the ground. He then went in search of his wife. He stepped into the shop. The interior was full of thick black smoke and the smell of burning human flesh. Here and there, sporadic fires burned. The smoke irritated his eyes, but he would not be deterred. He caught a glimpse of red cloth and worked his way over to it. Galina's limp arm protruded from beneath an overturned display table. Neghev moved the pile of rubble - not frantically, but in the slow methodical manner of a man rearranging furniture. At last, he lifted the table away and looked down on the sprawled, lifeless form of his wife. At least the upper portion of her body. Her legs were gone. The force of the blast had literally cut her in half. He did not scream, he merely blinked and drew a deep breath. Somewhere, in some dark chamber of his mind, a voice whispered ' _You're responsible for this. You brought them here.'_

He turned away from his mutilated wife and without looking back, walked out into the street. As he approached the store front, he stepped on something wet, nearly causing him to lose his footing. When he looked down, he saw that the floor was slick with blood and human entrails. His loafers were covered with red gore, as were the cuffs of his pant. He allowed this no more than a casual glance, and then continued into the street. There was an audible click in his head, as his brain pulled the breaker switch on some part of his thinking process. At that moment, all sense of compassion and humanity ceased to function and Neghev became an automaton. He would eat, sleep, defecate and kill, but his capacity for any real human emotion was gone.

Out on the sidewalk, a large crowd of onlookers had gathered, including a contingent of about thirty Arabs. If Neghev had a machine gun, he could have quite cheerfully shot them all. Instead, he crossed over to the phone box and reported the incident to the Israeli military authorities.

Five hours later, the human debris had been cleared away. The final toll had been thirty five dead and thirty more wounded. The driver of the suicide car had been a thirteen year old Palestinian girl. The Israeli's knew this because they had received a tape two hours after the bombing. In the tape, the girl had promised death to the Zionists while offering praise to Allah for the opportunity to sacrifice her life in his name. As she read the obviously prepared statement, Neghev wondered if there was any hope for a world that enlisted children to do its dirty work.

Now, years later, Neghev sat in his Italian hotel room, staring vacantly at his blank television screen, but his spirit was in another world, in another time. Time had passed slowly since the death of his world. The world in which he now lived was a hollow, pointless place. Though he functioned, he did not live. He had never shed any tears over the death of his wife and daughter. He did not think of himself as deserving of tears because he had killed them, as surely as if he had been driving the car himself. In retrospect, he had never been able to understand why he had brought them to the Devil's crucible.

In the time since, he had eliminated threats to his homeland, but he had never been able to make amends for the two lives that he had lost. He understood that no matter how many threats he removed, he would never be able to recreate the two lives he had lost. The essential paradox of that truth brought his basic worthlessness home with the force of a driven nail. He could take life with great proficiency, but he was powerless to give it back. The deaths that day had been, for him, the thing that best demonstrated the true futility of human conflict. In a war between two factions, both of which believed unflinchingly in their own cause and actions, there could be no winners, only survivors. Yet, for the first time in six years, Neghev saw a possible path to redemption. If this Simonovic was responsible for a series of deaths, then her removal would be a worthy act. These deaths were absolutely pointless. These murders did not further any cause; rather they were committed for the sheer pleasure of the act. This was the most reprehensible waste of life possible. If destroying Cynara, who was a monster, could spare just one child, then maybe, just maybe, Neghev could begin to live again. He smiled and it felt good. It was the first time in years that he had allowed himself a genuine smile. He rose and went to inform the Bishop of his decision. Another brick in the road of the converging had been laid.

Chapter Seven: The Cruiser Meets the Lady

1

The apartment on Widenmont Street was dark save for a single bare red bulb, which barely lit one of the three small rooms. The less than gentle strains of Black Sabbath's War Pigs filled the air at an ear splitting volume. The song could easily be heard in every other apartment in the building, but no one would dare complain because the music was coming from Eddy the Cruiser's room. As Eddy so proudly put it, everybody had more sense than to fuck with The Cruiser.

The room was unkempt because housekeeping was not one of Eddy's strong points. The walls were decorated with the faces of his heroes, plus various other posters. There was a poster of Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath (the old Sabbath, with the Ozzy, not that Dio guy). There was nothing particularly startling about this, except that they were side by side with Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin. Some of the posters depicted scenes of graphic violence and rape from various movies. The room's sole occupant lay on a small bed. He was tall and thin with straight black hair and a ruggedly handsome face. His eyes were dark brown and burned with a frightening intensity, which he had worked long to perfect. He wore black jeans and scuffed motorcycle boots. On his upper body, he sported the obligatory white tee shirt and leather vest. His left shoulder was adorned by a tattoo depicting a fist crushing a bloody heart. Eddy's cultivated savagery transcended mere toughness to the full blown psychosis of a ticking time bomb.

A long time ago, Eddy the Cruiser had been Edward Holmgren, a normal kid whose worst enemy turned out to be the random fortune of parentage. From the Cruiser's rather warped perspective, outright savagery was a prerequisite for survival. In his eyes, the world was divided into two types of people; the predators and the prey. Eddy saw himself as a deadly predator and Semelar as his jungle. The six o'clock news had related the details of a mutilation murder that had appealed to the Cruiser's sense of drama. He had never killed anyone, at least not directly, but he had always wanted to. Some intuition had told him that he was destined to be great. He had read several books chronicling the lives of his heroes. He had learned that each man of destiny was required to overcome obstacles. When his turn came to confront his obstacles on the road to greatness, he would do so swiftly and decisively. Even his penury was a source of foreshadowing for Eddy. History had shown that some of its greatest characters had risen from the depths of poverty.

He had been raised in an extremely poor household, though he would have laughed at the suggestion that he had been 'raised'. It would be more accurate to say that he had survived childhood. His mother had been there, but nothing more. He couldn't recall anything specific about her. Her most outstanding feature had been her blandness. His father had been another type of beast entirely. In a way, he had been a prototype of the Cruiser, himself. Vincent Holmgren had been a mean-spirited, irascible bastard, who was only happy when he was inflicting pain and terror. He had meted it out to Eddy in large quantities because the boy had displayed a little spirit. For the first eleven years of his life, the Cruiser had carried the scars of many a beating from the drunken old bastard. In the end, Eddy had gotten the rotten son of a bitch.

He remembered that it had been a hot August night and he was sitting on the front porch of their run down little bungalow. About six thirty, he caught the first glimpse of his old man staggering up the street. He could tell, by his halting lurch, that old Vince had spent the day putting on one classic piss up. The old man kicked open the wooden slat gate and promptly fell flat on his face. Despite his best efforts to contain it, Eddy burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. The old man looked up at him with a furious glare and yelled, "You think that's funny, you little bastard?"

"Yeah I do, you drunken old fucker!" Eddy retorted smartly. Then, deciding that flight was the better part of valor, he ran towards the street. The old man had risen to his knees and with surprising speed he reached out and tripped Eddy with a sweeping motion of his arm. The boy was sent sprawling, landing on his stomach on the front lawn. The old man sprang onto Eddy's back and legs. He then commenced to throttle the boy with both hands. Eddy raised his arms above his head to protect his face, but the blows fell heavily upon his back and shoulders.

"Now, you little fucker, do you still think it's funny?" he screamed gleefully. He stopped punching the boy and grabbing a hand full of hair, started to beat his face into the grass. Eddy's mouth and nostrils filled with grass and after a time, blood.

"Say you're sorry, you little bastard," the old man punctuated each word by smashing the boy's face into the grass. Something of the future Eddy began to emerge then, for he screamed back, "Never, you drunken bastard. Fuck you."

The old man might well have beaten Eddy's face to a pulp, were it not for the fortuitous passing of a police cruiser that stopped to investigate the commotion. The car pulled over to the curb and two cops jumped out. They each took hold of one of Vince's elbows and pulled him off of the boy. The first cop was a white man of medium height and build. The other was the most massive black man that Eddy had ever laid his eyes on. He towered at least eight inches over his father. Yet, as Eddy could readily attest, Vince Holmgren was not particularly blessed in the brain department, so he was not really surprised when the old man screamed in the black man's face, "Get your filthy hands off of me, you dirty nigger."

Despite the huge man's size and strength advantage, Vince managed to pull his arm away and swung a roundhouse blow at the officer. He connected squarely with the black man's chin, but absolutely nothing happened. He merely blinked and looked at the old man with an incredulous expression set upon his face. Then his lips curled into a humorless smile which gave young Eddy the chills. The policeman's left fist shot out like a blown piston, catching Vince high on the bridge of the nose. The impact of the blow sent him sprawling onto his back. He did a dead fish flip-flop and then lay perfectly still. He had been knocked unconscious by a single jab. The sight of his old man knocked cold filled Eddy with an ineffable delight. A large grin spread across his face, but quickly faded when he turned to the porch and saw his mother standing there. She had apparently been there the entire time, but had not tried to intervene. She stood there, with an obtuse, bewildered expression set on her face and let events take their course. Even now, with a battered, bleeding son and an unconscious husband before her, she made no move to come forward. Eddy loathed her even more than he did the old man. At least the old man, for all of his faults, had spirit. His mother was nothing but an empty shell.

It was then that the smile resurfaced and Eddy Holmgren became Eddy the Cruiser. He had enough of both of them and was going to take all the necessary steps to guarantee that they would never bother him again.

"Son, we're going to take you to the station, now. He won't hurt you again," the white cop said, in a gentle voice _._

' _You're right about that,'_ Eddy thought to himself, favoring the officer with an ear to ear smile.

Vincent Holmgren was processed and charged with two counts of assault and resisting arrest. In an inexplicable act of leniency, he was given a suspended sentence with a two year probation period. Nothing really changed around the Holmgren household, except that the atmosphere was even more charged than before. Vince tolerated Eddy's presence, but would neither speak with nor listen to the boy. This suited Eddy just fine.

Six weeks after the beating, Eddy had reached the point where he was ready to extract his revenge. The boy's only friend was a boy named Wyman Miller. Wyman was potentially even more disturbed than Eddy and found his greatest pleasure in torturing small animals. Wyman was actually one of the few people who frightened Eddy. The boy's behavior was so alien, so bizarre and unpredictable, that even the Cruiser was revolted by some of the things his mind conceived. At first Eddy was reluctant, but then he decided that he would have to recruit Wyman's help if he was going to carry off his plan. Friday after school he had found the other boy in the school parking lot and in the course of walking home provided him with the details of his entire plan. Miller had simply looked at the Cruiser and smiled. Eddy knew that his plan appealed to the other boy's perverse interests.

What did Eddy require of Miller? Miller would provide the alibi - a place to be and a legitimate reason for being away from his home when his plan went into effect. He had asked Wyman if he could sleep over at his house the following evening. In the light of what Eddy had proposed, Wyman promised that he would get his parent's permission. The following morning, Eddy asked his mother if he could sleep over at the Miller house that night. She glanced up at him from her dishes, and said that this would be fine. He had a sudden impulse to seize the frying pan and smash open her skull, but he subjugated the urge, knowing that his turn would come soon enough. Eddy suspected that she would have given him the same reply if he had asked her permission to burn down the house. His mother's anomalous behavior was a never ending source of consternation for the boy, who did not have the sensibility to grasp that it was the woman's only defense mechanism.

He had spent the remainder of the day watching things develop in the usual way. At about eleven o'clock, the old man stumbled out of bed, groped for his cigarettes and sat there smoking one unfiltered cigarette after the other. At about two, he began his near daily journey down the road to total inebriation by heading off to the neighborhood liquor store. There, he would purchase one of his two favorites; Southern Comfort or Jack Daniels. If the week had been especially unfair to good old Vince, he might just treat himself to both. By seven, everything was progressing perfectly. The old man was totally blitzed at the kitchen table and his mother was ensconced before the television set staring vacantly at some asshole sitcom. Things had been this way as long as Eddy could remember, but if events unfolded as he hoped, tonight would be the final performance of this hateful play.

At eight o'clock he told his mother that he was leaving for Wyman's and that he would be back early Sunday.

"Not too early, boy," the old man grumbled. Eddy nodded and walked to the door. He spared the two one last glance. Watching them sitting there, wallowing in their own pointlessness, he decided that he was doing them both a favor. To live another thirty or forty years in a slow downward spiral of decay would be a fate worse than death. He went to the Miller's and spent the next six hours listening to Wyman fantasize and philosophize. He listened in an absent fashion, not really hearing, only wanting the time to pass. When the clock in the living room finally struck two, Eddy slipped out into the night and set off for home. As he crept through the darkness, it occurred to him that he had never felt as viscerally alive as he did at that precise moment. To avoid being seen, he had selected a deliberately circuitous route through side streets, alleyways and back yards. He climbed over his back fence and made his way to the window of his bedroom, which he had left slightly open before his departure. Raising the window as quietly as possible, he hoisted himself inside. Though the room was pitch black, he was able to make his way to the door without a sound. He pressed his ear to the wood and listened, but could detect no sound or movement from the other side. Cautiously, he opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the main hall which ran into the living room. Loud guttural snoring issued from the depths of his parents' bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, but Eddy doubted that the old man could be roused by a nuclear explosion. It was possible, however, that his mother might hear him.

He moved past the door and along the hall, trying to avoid the floor boards which he knew squeaked. He had almost made it into the carpeted living room, when he stepped on the wrong board and it gave out a tortured groan. His breath hitched in his chest and he waited for the screech of the bed springs. When that screech did not come, he continued into the living room and then onto the kitchen. Eddy crossed over to the stove, which was a gas range, and set about his work. He withdrew a silver penlight from the back pocket of his jeans. Concentrating his beam on the stove controls, he switched all of the element controls to the full open position. He did the same to the oven control and then opened the oven door. He switched off the pen light and stood in the darkness until the smell of gas reached his nostrils. Satisfied that the gas was spreading throughout the house, Eddy made his way back to the bedroom hall. He paused by the master bedroom's door and listened for one final time to the hateful sound of his old man's snoring. He then went back into his bedroom and exited through the window. Balancing on the window sill, he slid his window shut, not wanting to provide an escape point for the gas that was filling the interior of the bungalow.

2

Down the street there was a small wooded rise and it was here that Eddy decided to wait for events to play themselves out. His pocket watch told him that it was three thirty and it would be some time before his parents rose to face, what he sincerely hoped would be their final morning on the planet. For the past few years, the old man had started the day with a bedside cigarette, which he lit with a gold plated lighter. He would no sooner have swung his legs out of bed, when he would be reaching for his lighter and cigarettes. This would be the signal for his mother to arise and begin her day of servitude. On this morning, if all went well, they would never find their way to the kitchen, but to the hell they both deserved.

Time passed slowly, as the moon traversed the heavens. Eddy grew tired and after a time, fell into a fitful doze. He dreamed beautiful dreams in which he was the supreme ruler of a world that existed only for his gratification. As the ruler, he killed anyone who annoyed him simply for his own pleasure. There were women to be taken and discarded and everything that his heart desired. Oh, how his subjects adored him. They would gladly do anything for his amusement, including forfeit their lives.

When he finally awoke from his slumber the sun was beating down upon his face. He experienced a tense moment, because the sun was high in the sky and he feared that his scheme had failed. He took out his pocket watch; it read fifteen minutes after ten. He decided to wait until ten thirty before conceding defeat. The minutes passed and Eddy began to feel a sinking frustration. He was about to give up and go down to see what had went wrong when a huge roar shattered the morning stillness. The windows of his house blew out, scattering glass in a hundred foot radius. To Eddy's amazement, the roof of the house lifted a full five feet off of its walls. It crashed back onto the walls, bringing the whole structure down. Fire belched out of the pile of rubble and soon the whole mess was ablaze. Eddy gave a triumphant howl and did a small victory jig on his hill. His shackles had been broken. Now Eddy was free.

Of course, life had still not been easy for Eddy. He had been forced to endure a string of foster homes. His greatest fear had been exposure by unpredictable Wyman Miller. That fear had been alleviated when a policeman's bullet had ended Wyman's life. He had been caught trying to rape a four year old girl, when a sniper's bullet had shattered his skull. Too bad, Eddy thought, smiling as he remembered. Devoid of compassion and inured against all human suffering, he had survived all of these things and as he was fond of saying, the rest was history.

3

The television report about the mutilation murder had awakened something primal in Eddy. The very walls of his room seemed to be closing in upon him. He felt a longing that was very close to sexual desire, raging in his blood, demanding satisfaction. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His engineer's boots hit the floor with a thud. He took his black leather jacket down from its wooden hook and put it on. He ran down the stairs, out into the street and kicked over a row of trash cans, trying to release some of his tension. They spilled their contents into the gutter. Eddy roared and raised his fist into the air.

"Fuck the world!" he bellowed with mindless defiance. The idea that someone could express such creative artistry through murder intoxicated Eddy, though he lacked the intellectual currency to understand why this enthralled him as it did.

Around the back of the building, Eddy climbed into his beloved Camaro. It symbolized the way in which Eddy saw himself...dark, intimidating and above all else, powerful. He inserted the key into the ignition and turning it, felt the engine roar into life like a roused panther. He put a tape into the deck and turned the volume up to full blast. The music poured out of the speakers in a song which could well have stood as The Cruiser's anthem:

One hand on the wheel and the other on the trigger.

To hell with the greens, blow all the reds.

You got your pedal to the metal and your gun to their heads.

Blood Sport had captured the essence of that feeling, the high that the Cruiser experienced when he was behind the wheel of his machine. It was a feeling unmatched by any other. Well almost anything, he amended with a grin. One of the few things that he enjoyed as much as driving his Camaro, was giving some high boxed bitch a demonstration of his strength, his talent. Lately he had grown bored with his usual assortment of woman and tonight he intended to find some new territory to conquer. He intended to cruise until he found the ideal candidate and then he would introduce her to the ramrod. If the bitch was ungrateful for the opportunity that she was being given, then that would just make the game that much more enjoyable. Like his mother, women were empty vessels to be filled and discarded at a whim. Who was to say, maybe his night's conquest would be on the six o'clock news tomorrow.

He pulled away from the curb and shot down the street in a squeal of belted radials and the peel of rubber. He intended to head down to the Witly Marsh, through the industrial section, where he would open the Camaro up on some of the long, straight sections. The night was unusually bright with every star in the sky shimmering like a precious jewel set against a backdrop of black velvet. Yet even these were dull, when compared to the golden splendor of the full moon. Eddy turned left and headed west along Troy Street. Troy Street housed a series of warehouses and industrial supply yards, most of which served Semelar P and P. In Eddy's scheme of things, the economic picture meant less than shit. He really didn't give a fuck about the slave driving money mongers or the pathetic bastards who worked for them. To Eddy, they deserved each other.

He was pondering the Socio-economic hierarchy of his hometown, when something caught his attention, giving him a start. Eddy's incredulous eyes beheld a woman. She was quite alone, walking through the deserted streets. Eddy whistled softly to himself.

' _This broad is either fucking lost or fucking crazy,'_ he thought. Eddy eased off of the accelerator and allowed the Camaro to glide up alongside the solitary woman. His first glimpse of her nearly convinced him that she must have been a mirage; an idealized construct of his dark desires. She was tall and had long, curly black hair. She wore black shoes, with a black suede blazer and matching slacks. To Eddy, she looked as though she had just materialized out of someone's erotic fantasy. Her ass was perfection and her tits were the most delectable pair he had ever seen.

' _This must be my lucky night,'_ he mused. ' _Not to mention hers, of course.'_ he added with his customary humility.

He continued up the street and pulled the car over to the curb, about forty feet ahead of the approaching woman. Now, he knew, she would feel the first tremor of panic and either turn around or cross to the other side of the street. Eddy loved to see fear in their eyes. It symbolized their respect for him. Once she had changed directions, the chase would begin and for Eddy, so would the high and the release that came with the pursuit. Perhaps tonight there would be even more than just the simple release. When the Cruiser glanced into his rear view mirror, he was surprised to see that the woman hadn't changed directions, but continued to move towards the car. He reached across the shotgun seat and rolled down the window. When the vision in black had drawn parallel to the car, the Cruiser spoke in a voice that was ripe with lechery and implied menace, "How would you like the ride of your life, beautiful?"

She stopped and looked into the car with a mildly bemused expression, but inexplicably no visible sign of fear. Something about that expression seemed arrogant and imperious. Quite frankly, something about her pissed him right the fuck off but excited him as well. She stepped off of the curb and leaned through the window, fixing him with an appraising gaze. Eddy thought that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes upon. After a moment, a radiant smile broke slowly across her face and, maddeningly, she broke into a hysterical peel of laughter. When this subsided, she said, "Go home, little boy."

With this, she pushed away from the car and resumed her stroll along the empty street. The Cruiser just sat there, unable to move, while the raw fury boiled up inside of him. No one dared speak to him with such overt contempt and disdain, at least not since his old man. His hands gripped the wheel with such force that his knuckles went bone white on the worn leather. When he removed them, they shook violently. The old man had been the last person to talk to him that way and now that fucker was long dead. If that arrogant bitch didn't do everything he wanted her to do, she just might end up the same way. He threw open the door, sprung lithely out and slammed it shut. The tall bitch had turned a corner up ahead and he broke into a run trying to catch up to her.

When he reached the corner, he saw that she had turned into an alleyway. She had probably decided that what she had done was foolish and was hiding somewhere, praying that he would leave her alone. Well, she was about to learn what it meant to back talk the Cruiser. He set off down the alley, which was long and narrow. Crates and boxes were piled high along its length. Debris was scattered everywhere. There were several spots in which she could have concealed herself. He called out, in a sing song voice, "Come out and play. I won't hurt you... too much."

He paused for a moment, listening for some sign of movement, but hearing none. He proceeded further into the alleyway, beginning to think that the bitch had managed to slip away from him. The alley opened into a large loading area that served four adjacent buildings. It too, was filled with cast off crates and other types of debris. Something about the quality of light here was different. At first it eluded him, but when he looked up, it became apparent; the moon and stars, which had shone so brightly, were gone. Something about the sudden change in the sky unsettled the Cruiser and he felt some of his anger ebbing away. The heavens had not been obscured by clouds. Instead, it seemed as if a sack cloth had been thrown across the sky. A low whisper of sound came out of the heart of the darkness. It startled the Cruiser and he peered into the blackness, trying to locate its source. It came again, but in a different part of the bay. It was the liquid swishing sound of something slithering along the concrete.

Eddy paused again and decided that it would be best to give up this chase and seek easier prey elsewhere. He turned to go and gasped out loud. She was standing, with hands on hips, in the entrance to the alley. The way in which she was standing seemed to suggest that she intended to stop him from leaving.

"Well, I see that you still want to play. Good." She put a finger to her lips and stood, regarding him pensively, for a moment. "What shall we play? Oh, I know. Let's play King, or Queen as the case may be, of the alley. The object of the game is quite simple. You are going to try to leave this alley and I am going to try to stop you. That shouldn't be too difficult for a big, tough guy like you."

She stood there, tauntingly; an infuriatingly sardonic smile playing at her lips. The Cruiser's entire body went rigid with the desire to strike out at the woman. He was before all else, a creature of instinct and restraint lay beyond his sensibilities. He had no moral reservations about hitting a woman. On the contrary, he believed that it was a man's obligation if they were to grasp their true place in the grand scheme of things. This cunt was asking for a royal beating, standing there deliberately trying to provoke him. A small voice warned caution, but Eddy scoffed at the notion. The woman decided the issue, when she said, "Eddy, (how did she know my name?) don't you want to play? You're not afraid, are you?"

His reaction was predictable. He bellowed and charged at her like an enraged bull. She dropped her hands from her hips and stood her ground. He moved directly at her, with his head slightly lowered, coming forward like a juggernaut, fully intending to break her in two. Three feet away, now two and now one. He dropped his head, anticipating the moment of impact, but it did not come. He barreled a short way into the darkness and slammed into a brick wall. A lightening bolt of pain traversed the entire length of his spine, causing him to cry out. He collapsed in a heap. His muscles shook uncontrollably.

"Have you hurt yourself?" Cynara inquired with feigned concern, "Oh, I hope you haven't because I still want to play."

His head was pounding and when he ran his fingers through his hair, they came away sticky and wet with blood. He could not quite understand what had happened. Then an even more startling notion came to him; he had collided with a brick wall. When he charged her, she had been standing in the centre of the alleyway. Though he missed her, he should have just continued running forward. He raised his head, which gave a monstrous protest, and looked about him. He was indeed lying in the centre of the alley, but now a solid brick wall blocked the entrance. The need to escape became more insistent and he struggled to his feet. He attempted to stand, but found that his legs were not quite ready and he had to lean against the recently materialized wall for support.

Cynara had retreated two steps into the opening. Eddy focused his eyes upon her, absently wiping blood away from his brow. She had shed her jacket and stood there with her muscular arms spread outward in an open gesture of challenge. "This is not an appropriate setting for a confrontation of such magnitude. You don't mind if I make a few slight alterations in the scenery?"

She moved her arms in a grandiose sweeping gesture and intoned, "Let there be light."

Suddenly, the entire alley was aglow with shafts of hard, golden light. "I've always wanted to do that. It appeals to my sense of biblical drama."

Eddy was too dumbfounded to reply. When he turned his eyes skyward, it appeared as though the shafts continued up to the heavens. The loading bay had also changed. It had taken on the appearance of a coliseum arena. As he scanned the upper perimeter, he was struck by the impression that a great audience had gathered to witness his moment of desperate confrontation. The silence had assumed an expectant quality. The darkness seemed to shift and caper as if it were substantial and not the mere absence of light. He could feel the weight of many eyes upon him. He turned towards Cynara and in a conciliatory voice, said, "Look lady, I've made a mistake." He smiled a beseeching smile. "This is all a misunderstanding. Let's just forget it, okay."

Cynara regarded him with a look of exaggerated disbelief. "Forget it? Eddy, if there's one thing I hate, it's not finishing a game. You don't seem to understand what is happening here. It has come to me that you fashion yourself to be a king. Thus far, you've acquitted yourself more in the manner of a peasant. So here, before this esteemed gathering, you are going to have to prove that you are worthy of your proclaimed mantle."

"Who are you? How do you know me?" he asked in a halting voice.

"You are an open book. To know you, one only has to look. As to who I am, perhaps you could best describe me as your crossroads. If you get the better of me, then maybe you are the king that you claim to be." She paused and with great gravity, added, "But should you fail, then all roads lead to hell."

She stood there, poised and confident, the type of woman that Eddy detested, always beautiful and always self assured. These types of women had always made him feel inadequate. Maybe all of this was just a pile of bullshit. Voodoo stuff aside, she was just a woman like his mother. No woman had ever gotten the better of him and this one wouldn't.

He strode towards her, trying valiantly to affect his old swagger and ignore the pain in his head. She stood still, hands down at her sides, making no move to assume a defensive posture. When he had come within striking distance, he drew back his right fist and sent it crashing directly into Cynara's jaw. Her head snapped back and Eddy waited for her to fall. Instead, she simply smiled, "All right, you've had your warm up shot. Now, show me what you're really made of."

Eddy stood gaping, unable to digest what was happening. He had just hit this woman with a punch that had given him the victory in many an alley brawl and yet she just stood there smiling. His first instinct was to turn and run, but his macho pride asserted itself and he swung again, trying to channel all of his strength into the blow. In one fluid motion, she sidestepped his blow and brought the crook of her elbow up in a sweeping arc, connecting with the Cruiser's armpit. He screamed in agony and terror as his shoulder separated with a pop. Eddy fell to his knees, cradling his injured shoulder with his good hand. To his own horror and shame, he began to weep.

"The king's crown is tottering precariously on his regal head, it would seem," Cynara taunted. She reached down and taking a hold of his blood matted hair, pulled him to his feet. Displaying a false maternal concern, she brushed the dirt from his clothes and the hair from his eyes. Had Eddy not been the recipient, he would have appreciated such a display of refined savagery. "I believe this is what you were trying to do."

She drew back her fist and slammed it into Eddy's face twice in a piston like motion. There was a distinct crack as three of his teeth shattered. His lips were mashed and shredded against the shards of broken teeth. He collapsed to his knees with a whimper of pain. He then pitched forward onto his face. The man, who had once called himself the Cruiser, had somehow become ensnared in a vice of pain and blood. The combination of the two induced a round of vomiting. The steaming contents of his stomach poured out over his face, thoroughly completing his degradation.

Cynara shook her head, "I'm really rather disappointed. Quite frankly, I expected better from you. This is what you get for trying to hit a lady," she scolded.

"You're beginning to bore me and I loathe being bored." she added, bending down over his sprawled form. She rolled him onto his back and he looked up into the alien golden light, feeling the sting of tears as they burned his eyes. The night air hurt him every time he drew a breath over his broken teeth.

"Not to sound presumptuous, but I believe that I'll just declare myself the winner of this little contest. I'd like to give you a reprieve, but rules are rules I'm afraid. I'm going to leave now, but there are two people here, who would be honored to attend to you." She bent forward and kissed his brow. Then she rose and walked towards what had been the entrance to the alley. Eddy watched her go, through his veil of agony. She approached the wall, showing no intention of stopping and she did not. The woman passed through the wall as if she were a shade, no more substantial than a hologram.

He lay bleeding and broken, marshalling his strength to rise, when one by one, the golden shafts of light were extinguished. After a time, the alley was left in total darkness and Eddy became afraid. The woman had said that two of her friends were anxious to meet him. The prospect of meeting any more of her kind terrified him beyond words. He tried to rise to his knees, but the pain in his head and shoulder exploded, making him cry out. A faint shuffling sound issued out of the darkness from somewhere behind him. He turned quickly, thinking that she might have decided to return and finish what she had started. What he saw were two forms materializing out of thin air. The two were monstrous parodies of human beings, each looking as if they had been torn apart and reconstructed by a psychotic butcher. A smell filled the confines of this bizarre cell and it was this smell that finally broke Eddy's fragile grip on sanity. His nostrils recognized the smell of propane, like the type used in a household range. The two figures were horribly burnt; their bodies covered with alternating patches of charred black skin and bright red tissue. Occasionally, this tissue would erupt into large red blisters, which would burst open, spraying fluids into the air. The reek of burning flesh followed hard on the heels of the gas smell, causing Eddy's stomach to roll queasily.

"Hello Eddy," the nearest one said. The figure had been burned beyond recognition, but there was a familiar ring to its voice. It was that of his long dead father, Vincent. "We haven't forgotten about you, son."

Eddy began to scream, totally unmanned by his fear. The pair drew closer and closer while Eddy attempted to crawl away. Eventually, he backed into a solid wall. He looked up. They were almost upon him now and he realized that he was about to die. He did not relish the prospect of doing so at their devices. With his good hand, he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew a pearl handled switch blade. He depressed the button that released the lethal blade with a metallic ping; six inches of cold killing steel. He looked up at the two ghastly specters and bellowed, "You're still a no good fucking drunk. Fuck the both of you!"

He then jammed the blade into his throat. There was a geyser of blood and a severe spasm of the muscles. Then Eddy was dead. The two figures seemed not to notice. They moved to either side of the body and with hunger shining in their eyes, fell upon him.

Chapter Eight: Cynara

The mansion on Rothman road was a large Victorian house that had been constructed between 1910 and 1913. It was surrounded by thirty acres of estate land which had been valued at two point three million dollars in the 1972 Semelar County appraisal revision. The perimeter was secured by an eight foot high wrought iron gate that was fully electrified. The gate was topped by spikes spaced at one foot intervals. The spikes looked ornamental from the ground, but when viewed from atop the fence, they were sharp and deadly. The gate across the main drive was adorned with the profiles of two gargoyles.

In the master bedroom of the west wing, Cynara Simonovic was preparing for bed. She had donned a green satin robe and stood before a full length, oak trimmed mirror, admiring the perfection of her features. She removed the robe and laid it over the arm of a nearby chair. Standing before the mirror once again, she studied the curves and lines of the form she had created for herself. She smiled contentedly, satisfied with what she had fashioned. She padded across the plush carpet, to the brass bed, where she lay down upon the black satin sheets. Cynara always had a penchant for satins and silks. Their texture and the manner in which they played with light, creating various optical pleasantries, appealed to Cynara's sense of femininity. The satin was cool and produced a sensual contrast when next to her warm skin. When she allowed herself to do so, she would revel in the dreamy sensations that her body provided for her. Her nudity, the perfection of her form, was a constant source of autoerotic stimulation which never failed to ignite her passions. Normally, she would have surrendered to this self induced lust and perhaps summon a demon lover from some nether world to satisfy her desire. On this night, however, she had much to ponder.

There were many things to be considered, new factors in the ancient equation. For the first time in over one hundred years, she was plagued by uncertainty over the unfolding of events. The most disturbing aspect of the situation had been her encounter with the boy, earlier in the day. From the first moment that he had entered her office, she had discerned that there was something different about the child. She had been stunned to discover the nature of his extraordinary talent, having never encountered a being of his ilk. His existence opened up an entire spectrum of new possibilities. ' _How had he been capable of detecting me?'_ she wondered. The specifics fascinated her, but they also alarmed her for two reasons; firstly and most obviously, it meant that she now faced the genuine risk of exposure. Secondly, it created a new variable with which she would now have to contend. The first factor did not concern her, at least not for the moment. The child was disturbed, that was why he had been sent to her in the first place. If he were to mention his discovery to anyone, it would only serve to confirm his instability and be dismissed as a child's fantasy. The second factor was somewhat more subtle, but even more alarming; why had she not been able to anticipate his existence?

In the past, she had always been able to assume total control of any situation in which she had become involved. She had done this by being able to read the minds and characters of the other major players. By doing this, she could isolate their weaknesses and utilize this knowledge against them. The beauty of this appealed to Cynara's sense of irony. Every opponent had provided her with the key to his or her own undoing. She had merely been the agent of their destruction. Ambition, greed, arrogance and lust...these were her longstanding allies. Once her opponent's weakness had been uncovered, their destruction became a virtual certainty. But something went awry this time. Her usual omniscience had failed her. Even more disturbing, she had found it difficult to draw the boy out. He had been able to erect mental barriers that had been capable of surviving her psychic assaults; a fact she attributed strictly to his tender age. The young readily accepted deviations from the norm that older people rejected out of hand. When he focused his energies he had inflicted actual physical pain upon her. This had been due to her ignorance of his ability. The mental lightning bolt, with which he had stung her, had taken her completely by surprise and had caused her excruciating pain. For a tense moment, she had felt the beast fighting to surface, looking to extract revenge. It had taken every ounce of her resolve to maintain her control. Even this had been a cause for concern, for if the beast had surfaced to destroy the boy, her elaborately laid scheme would have tumbled into ruins.

Once the appetite had grown it could not easily be suppressed, so it had been necessary for her to seek out a victim. The worthless scum that she had destroyed had been the personification of everything that she despised in men. It had given her an intense feeling of pleasure to send his soul to hell. She viewed men as loathsome creatures to be preyed upon without mercy or restraint. Over the hundred and thirty odd years of her existence, she had let a number of them experience the ecstasy of her favors, but they had meant nothing to her. Their humiliation and corruption were her greatest sources of gratification. They were vain, arrogant and petty...thinking themselves to be superior, but then falling to whatever seductive temptations she might offer. She had never been faced with a man who could provide her with a worthy challenge. They were tainted and totally without spiritual purity. The very sight of most men filled her with disgust. This was the reason that she had spent such a great deal of time refining her body...perfecting its curves and lines until every element contributed to her feminine allure. Despite the abhorrence that she harbored towards men, she had spent years studying them, trying to understand the common ingredients which best aroused their sexual desire. She had discovered that their preferences varied vastly, but there were common elements that appealed to most; large firm breasts topped with responsive nipples; long legs, with firm, well defined thighs, a waspish waist and flaring hips...firm dune like buttocks, which swayed suggestively at the slightest movement and a structurally perfect face, which blended angelic and devilish features in tantalizingly correct proportions. She had been born a beautiful girl, but after she had undergone The Turning, she had transcended the limits of beauty to a state of total flawlessness...an image that she could refine to match the standard of any given moment in time.

The problem of the boy was her most pressing concern. Despite it being unlikely that anyone would believe a tale of a demonic psychiatrist, she decided that it would be prudent to remove him. It would be preferable if she could induce someone else to do her dirty work, thus removing the slightest suggestion of any duplicity. She considered this for a moment, trying to select the ideal assassin. Then a smile broke across her face as she recalled something from boy's case history. The question of who was no longer a question at all.

Cynara was being more cautious than normal, but the stakes involved justified the added caution. It would have been a simple matter to seek out and kill the boy herself and in truth, she would have derived a great deal of satisfaction from doing so, but this would have jeopardized her work. She would have to exercise a great deal of restraint in the future. Despite her great self confidence, she felt vaguely uneasy about circumstances. First the boy had surfaced and then there was the man from the East with whom she would soon have to deal. He would come, she knew, and would try to kill her, but he would fail. There was a third factor, the nature of which had eluded her thus far. That portion of the future was veiled and her inability to penetrate the veil angered and frustrated her. If she had been unable to anticipate the boy and failed to see the nature of the other obstacle, what else had she either missed or remained hidden to her? She voiced this question to the darkness, but no reply came, only silence.

She thought a more appropriate question may have been...why was her latest scheme so important to her? This time Cynara had a personal interest in the game. In the past she had strictly served the interests of her Master. The souls that she had defiled and delivered into his realm were remuneration for the powers he had been given her. She had been a proficient collector, perhaps his best. This latest prize would be hers and hers alone. This was an unprecedented gift on the Master's part. Since the earliest days of her demonic afterlife she had possessed one ambition and over the years, this ambition had evolved into an all consuming obsession. She had spent nearly eighty years searching for her antithesis: a being with a purity of spirit that was the precise opposite of her own black soul...someone against whom she could test her powers to their limit. She had searched vainly for this person. At times, she would come close to finding this ideal, only to uncover some well concealed flaw. On this occasion, she felt confident that she had, at last, found her perfect opposite and she would go to any lengths necessary to claim her prize.

Cynara was determined to break her target, but not for her Master. She would gather a multitude of souls for his dominion. No, this person she would have for herself. She would corrupt and then turn her target, but not for the purpose of simple defilement. This chosen one would become her constant companion because Cynara had learned that even the blackest of hearts may feel the bitter sting of loneliness. Despite her power, her wealth and beauty, she still felt the need for companionship. There were other creatures of her ilk traversing the edges of civilization just beyond the range of human imagination, but they all served only one Master. Cynara wanted a companion whose only allegiance was to her. The conquest of a spiritually perfect creature would not only fulfill this need, but would serve as a prestigious testimony to her predatory abilities. The chosen one excited her, filled her heart and soul with a lust the likes of which she had never known and which would have frightened her if she was to dwell on the matter for too long.

In a sudden moment of insight, she came to understand why things were different this time around. She theorized that, because she wanted something so desperately, some perverse twist of fate would make it that much harder to obtain by robbing her of some of her abilities. Usually, her clairvoyance was flawless when it came to reading the minds of human beings. She could not do this with creatures of her own kind, however. Perhaps, when certain emotions were worked into the equation, they obscured vision and diminished powers.

Cynara absently folded the satin spread over her body as she recalled some of her adventures. It was difficult for her to imagine what it had been like to be human. She had been alive for a relatively short time, though she scoffed at the pathetic state that humans called being alive. On rare occasions, she actually pitied them for being denied such a vast portion of their abilities. In her mind, the average human being was like an eight cylinder engine, groping along on two cylinders; they utilized a quarter of the power that was at their disposal. When she had been a girl, she must have sensed that there was something more because she had always been intrigued by tales of witchcraft and wizardry. The peasants had always believed that she was a devil. They believed that she had killed her mother at birth. Her father had tried to insulate her from these superstitions, but over the years she had heard all of the stories. She had lived awaiting the development that she believed was destined to alter her life and at sixteen, she had been _Turned_. From that day forward her power had grown, slowly at first and then in leaps and bounds, until she had become one of the most powerful demons of the modern age. Some day she would match the legendary Destara himself. She consolidated her powers waiting for the moment when she would cross paths with the epitome spiritual purity. Her creed had implied that the pure of spirit were beyond her reach, but she intended to disprove this. When she did, she would have established a new framework in which the children of the beast could operate. In reality, she cared very little about the master scheme, but such an achievement would feed her ego and serve her own personal interests. When she had collected her prize, she would rest on her laurels and enjoy the fruits of her labors. The years had been long for Cynara and some had been quite difficult. The most trying period had been the destruction of her first home, which had also killed Morgan. He was human and had perished from the ravages of fire. Cynara had not cared enough for the man to actually turn him, but she had been amused by his antics and he had been fanatically devoted to her. He had been the last of her constant companions. She had searched diligently for his replacement and now, one had been found. She would turn this person so that they might feel the ecstasy of virtually limitless power and immortality. She pushed aside the veil of years and looked back to the time of the turning. Even the darkest of creatures are not immune to the melancholy whisper of their memories.

Chapter Nine: The Turning

1

It was the summer of her sixteenth birthday when Cynara reached the juncture of her life. The summer had been exquisite; each day dawning bright and blue and setting in a splendid blaze of crimson. In contrast to the beautiful weather, Cynara's internal climate had been turbulent. Her moods shifted so quickly and drastically that her family members and servants feared for her sanity. One moment she could seem rather content, only to fly into a violent rage the next. Even she could not comprehend the reasons for her dramatic mood swings. When the Baron had asked her to explain why she had beaten a servant girl, she could only mumble an incoherent, feeble excuse. Cynara felt that some unknown force was gathering within her and like a volcano, that force would rise up to radically reshape her life.

She spent a great portion of the spring and the early part of that summer riding through her father's hunting preserves. She found that the very sight of certain people incited her to violent outbursts and could find serenity only in solitude. Cynara took special care to avoid Peytor and Alasha, whose blissful deportment she found insufferable. She despised their correctness and their liberal attitudes towards the household staff and the peasants. More than this, they cheated her out of the attention of her father. At times, she fervently wished that they were dead. Consequently, she took great pains to avoid unnecessary contact with either. She spent solitary hours seeking a solution to the enigma of her mounting disquiet.

Her father, Emile, was in her mind, a rather obtuse man, but one who loved her passionately. When Cynara was a very young girl, she had overheard one of the kitchen staff tell another that she had somehow been responsible for her mother's death. The other servant's response had always remained clear in her mind, "Yes, I too have heard this. How he must loath the little monster?"

She had carried this accusation inside of her until she was fifteen and could bear it no more. One day, when Peytor was out hunting and Alasha was about her fatuous studies, she had found her father in his working chamber. It was in this room that he attended to the business of his estate. The children had been instructed never to visit him here unless it concerned some vitally important matter. When she opened the chamber door, Emile fixed her with a severe look, but when he saw how agitated she appeared, he became concerned. "What is troubling you, my child?"

"Father," she began haltingly, on the verge of tears. "For years I've heard whispers."

Emile rushed around his desk and stood before her, perceiving the intense anguish in her voice. "Whispers of what?"

Sequestered in her small heart for years, her misgivings poured forth like a flood. "Was I responsible for mother's death?"

Emile was gripped by a wave of pity, astounded by the unjust burden that his beautiful angel had been forced to suffer. He enfolded her in his arms and led her to his favorite armchair. He sat opposite her, trying to restrain the emotion that he felt, groping for the right words to console his grieving child. "No my precious angel, you did not kill your mother. At times, the strain of bringing a new life into the world is more than a woman's body can tolerate. I believe that, if your mother could see the lovely young woman that you've become, she would change none of what happened. Your mother loved life and dying to create a new life was the kindest death that she could have had."

"Then why do the peasants say that I am to blame?" she sobbed wretchedly.

"I love the people of this land, Cynara, but they are poor and uneducated. Their lives are governed by fear and superstition. They see the devil's hand in every action that has an adverse affect on this world. I believe this relieves some of the boredom and drudgery that plagues their lives. It is wise to take what they say with a grain of salt."

She peered directly into his eyes and asked, "Do you hate me father?"

He could not reply at once, struggling hard to fight back his own tears. "Cynara, I have three children. Peytor is a fine young man who will one day become the Baron. Your sister, Alasha, is one of the most gifted women that I have ever known, but you are the pride of my existence. You elevated me from my despair and provided me with a reason to conquer my grief and take up the threads of my life."

Over the course of the next year, he took every opportunity to show her the extent of his love. He took her on several trips to Budapest, letting her buy whatever she desired in the shops there. She in turn, took every opportunity to abuse his love, but he never seemed to notice. She grew further and further estranged from her siblings and deeper into her own private world of acrimony and bitterness.

2

What Emile Saravic had told his daughter regarding the peasants need for a distraction, was a long standing belief of his. In an effort to provide them with some form of entertainment, he sponsored several fairs each year. Small circuses and acting troupes converged upon the Barony and, over a period of three weeks in the month of July, plied their trade and sold what goods they had to offer. These traveling shows consisted mostly of Gypsies, who came and went like the wind. Their regalia had been the first thing that distinguished them from the more settled peasants. They wore black leather boots and shiny fabrics of brilliant colors. This was only the superficial difference however. The true difference could be found in their spirit which was migratory and indomitable.

Cynara detested the festival and had always avoided it...refusing to mingle with both the peasants and the Gypsies. Both the Baron and his other two children attended the event, not only to be seen by their subjects, but out of a genuine interest in the amusement which the festival provided. Cynara found the whole fair petty and base and declared that she would not dignify it with her presence. She would have declined to attend this year's, had not the Baron adamantly insisted that she attend at least a few of the events. The Baron believed the peasants would embrace the girl if only she would expose her humanity. He had not forgotten her words of the previous year. He wished for her to break her seclusion, showing the world that she was a beautiful, charming girl, capable of love and compassion, and not a matricidal witch. He understood that she could never achieve this by remaining aloof and inaccessible. On the contrary, this would only serve to strengthen their convictions. She had protested vehemently, but he did not relent and in the end, she reluctantly agreed to go.

The Saravic family set out for the village together for the first and final time. Cynara sat in the carriage staring sullenly out of the window. She resented being forced to attend, but was even more dismayed by her inability to manipulate her normally pliable father. They arrived at the festival and she had immediately stalked off by herself. The smells of the village appalled her as did the sights and sounds of ordinary peasant life. She could feel the weight of their eyes upon her, but they dared not approach her. She imagined the way that they must perceive her...a beautiful young woman, attired in black velvet, tall and regal, walking among them. She knew that, though still a young girl, they feared her.

The village was alive with a variety of activities ranging from bazaars to circus acts. Cynara could hear the dulcet tones of a flute coming from a tent that had been pitched in the field behind the church. Something about the melody attracted her, compelling her to seek out its source. She crossed the field and stood outside of the tent, listening to the beguiling sound of the music. Though she wished to simply walk away, a part of her mind wanted to satisfy its curiosity. She was surprised to find that her heart was pounding and her breath was coming in ragged gasps. An alien voice spoke to her then, issuing from deep within the chambers of her mind. "This is the crossroads, you may go in or you may turn away and leave. The choice you make will be final. Go back to the life you live or venture into a new one"

She hesitated for a moment, then threw back the canvas flaps and stepped inside. She was struck by the heat and smell within the canvas enclosure. The tent was occupied by about one hundred and fifty peasants, most of whom were children. Every eye was drawn to the entrance, where the young beauty stood. A hush descended on the tent. The only sounds to be heard were the gentle strains of the flute as it danced its way through some obscure lullaby. Their collective gaze lashed her like hot pin pricks. Some raised their hands and made the sign against the evil eye. The humid air congealed with tension. She set her jaw and strode defiantly into the heart of the tent. The man who was playing the flute sat on a bale of hay with his back to the entrance. A large group of children sat at his feet listening raptly to the song he played. He wore a white, loose sleeved shirt and a gaudy silk vest. He had a handkerchief on his head and a large gold hoop through his left ear. He looked very much like the epitome of a caricature Gypsy.

Though astonished to find herself in a Gypsy tent, Cynara, like the children, was thoroughly intrigued by the minstrel. He was dressed like a peasant but he had the face of an aristocrat...fine featured and handsome. There was a melancholy quality to the music that he played. It seemed as if she were hearing it with two different sets of ears. On the first level, she could hear the gentle, childlike lullaby, but on the second, she seemed to hear a darkly powerful symphony. It spoke to her of wonders and powers which drew her with their unabashed vitality. She stood listening, hypnotized and unaware of how she had begun to sway ever so slightly. She remained in this position for an interminable time, until she realized that the player's eyes had settled squarely upon her. They were the pale blue of ice chips. His were the kind of eyes that catch the sun's rays and make them dance to a magical ballet.

Then words began to penetrate the fog of her trance. The entire tent reverberated with the sound of voices chanting in unison. "Devil Spawn. Devil Spawn."

She squirmed beneath their intense scrutiny, even that of the children. Her heart quickened in apprehension. These were a collection of animals, after all. Her head swiveled back to the minstrel. He had ceased playing and was regarding her with a bemused smile playing about his lips. The tempo of their chanting quickened until the cadence, combined with the oppressive heat, spun her in circles of vertigo. It assaulted her ears with white hot needles of pain. She realized that she was trembling and placed her hands over her ears attempting to block out the cacophony. To her dismay, the sound continued to reverberate in the chambers of her mind. "Dark Spawn, Devil Spawn."

They had come down out of the stands, forming a circle around her, closing in upon her. She could smell them, feel their heat. They radiated hatred in palpable waves. She slowly backed away, directly into the Gypsy. He gently gripped her shoulder and spun her to face him. "Welcome, little sister," he said amiably, with a predacious grin. "We've been waiting just for you."

Cynara turned and fled blindly towards the entrance, her heart pounding hard, not caring who she knocked over in the process. She brushed back the flaps and burst out into the open air, gasping for breath as though she had emerged from the waters of a stagnant swamp. She could feel droplets of sweat tracing paths along her brow. The two words echoed in her mind and the world swam out of focus, sending Cynara collapsing to the grass.

When she regained consciousness, her first sight was that of her sister's beautiful blue eyes gazing down into hers. Alasha's face appeared drawn and anxious. Her expression was a mixture of concern and weariness. When her sister finally opened her eyes, an expression of relief blossomed over Alasha's face.

"What happened?" Cynara asked weakly.

"The heat must have been too much for you, dear one. You fainted on the common, near the Gypsy tent. You frightened us quite badly." She finished by adding, "We brought you home. You've been unconscious for twelve hours."

Cynara's head felt light and foggy. She found it a task just to concentrate on her sister's words. "How did you find me?"

"Actually, we didn't. We were all watching a circus performance, when a Gypsy came to us, carrying you in his arms," Alasha explained.

Cynara's eyes widened and she sat up with a start. "Was this a blond haired man with blue eyes?"

"Yes," the older Saravic replied guardedly.

"What happened to him? Where did he go?" she demanded excitedly.

"I'm not sure. He brought you to us and said that you had collapsed outside of the tent where he was performing. Then he wished you well and left." Alasha answered, puzzled by her sister's agitation. Cynara seemed to be taking a rather inordinate interest in this Gypsy. Cynara saw her sister's quizzical expression and realized that her eagerness had roused the perceptive Alasha's curiosity.

"It's just that Gypsies are so untrustworthy. I hope that I still have all of my jewelry," she added, hoping to deflect her sister's suspicion.

"You do," Alasha said with some exasperation. "Now, you'll do well to rest."

She bent down and kissed her sister's cheek, not knowing that in the years to come, this girl would take her head.

"Goodnight little angel," she whispered affectionately. She turned and left, leaving Cynara to her dreamless sleep.

3

The morning sun slanted through her bedroom window in golden shafts, warming her skin and rousing her from her slumber. Cynara awoke feeling listless and drained, as if she had drank too much wine the night before. She also felt somewhat disappointed and confused by the events of the previous day. Before she had stepped into the confines of the Gypsy tent, some mysterious voice had promised the girl the way to a new horizon, but that promise had proven false. Instead she had found only hatred and contempt, things that she had always known to exist. Still, the man in the garish Gypsy costume seemed to possess some special, albeit vague, quality. Then there had been the two levels of his music, but perhaps that had only been a manifestation of her desire to find something extraordinary. To dwell upon the episode left her feeling cheated, so she dismissed it from her mind.

She slipped into a black satin robe and velvet slippers and then called for a servant to draw her bath. As the girl poured the steaming kettles of water into the tub, Cynara sat on the edge of the bed, watching the steam rise from the surface of the bath. What happened next was possibly a remnant of the previous day's traumatic experience, but the steam patterns began to resolve themselves into the face of the golden haired Gypsy. A mind under stress may conceive of many a wondrous vision or, perhaps, the illusion was created by a refraction of light through the vapor. All of this occurred to Cynara as she watched the sensuous face dance and caper in the mist. Then this vision gave way to a landscape. The landscape was dominated by a wooded ravine in which large granite boulders were arranged in a roughly concentric spiral. She recognized this area to be the northeast quarter of her father's hunting preserve. She had been there on a few occasions, but had never seen the ravine from this lofty perspective. Nor had she realized that the boulders were arranged in a distinct pattern. As quickly as it had appeared, the ravine was gone and the servant girl said, "Your water is ready, my lady. Do you wish for me to attend to your room?"

"Yes and lay out my riding clothes as well. I would like the black velvet tunic and the green skirt. Do not wrinkle the material or I'll have you horsewhipped," she warned with her customary absent malice.

"Yes, my lady," the girl, Rebecca Prowzi, replied meekly, knowing that the little witch would keep her promise over the slightest provocation.

Cynara bathed, dressed in her riding uniform and went downstairs to breakfast. The prospect of a brisk ride overcame the lethargy that had accompanied her awakening. In the back of her mind, she had already decided where her morning ride would lead her. When she strode into the dining room, her family asked after her with obvious concern, but her bouncy stride allayed their worry. She waved off their questions impatiently, declaring her intention to go riding. Her father started to protest, but she smiled and said, "Father, don't fret. Nothing could be better for me than a good gallop across the country side."

When her horse, a black stallion named Thunder God, was bridled and saddled, she set off towards the northeast quarter. The average person might have had some reservations about riding off in pursuit of apparitions, but Cynara was a creature of instinct and was convinced that something was beckoning to her. She was further convinced that it meant her no harm. The north section was extremely rugged and wild. It was generally avoided by even the most avid hunters and woodsmen. There were a few paths through its interior, but even these were difficult to negotiate. The girl was a skilled horseman and traversed these paths with a minimal amount of difficulty. The area had a large wild game population, especially wolves. As a precaution, she always carried a crossbow, which she could use adeptly, but she had never been forced to use it. She had encountered several wolves. Their inscrutable eyes would trace her passage, but never had they made a threatening overture toward the solitary rider.

She ventured deeper into the preserve than she had ever gone. In the next hour, the sun was obscured by dull gray clouds that had moved in from the west. The wind began to gust and Cynara drew her cloak around her shoulders, sheltering herself from its chilling bite. The forest was unusually silent, save for the rustling of the leaves which the wind had brought to life. She contemplated turning back, but a mysterious impulse compelled her to forge ahead. She had come here in search of something and although she was uncertain what that something was, Cynara was convinced that the morning's apparition had not been an idle fancy.

She crested a large rise and was rewarded with a breathtaking view of the forest, which had opened up into a large ravine. From the crest of the rise, she could clearly see the arrangement of boulders. They did, indeed, form a roughly concentric spiral. She was not particularly surprised to hear faint strains of a flute coming from somewhere below her. She dug her boots into the stallion's flank and spurred it down the slope, unmindful of the precarious angle of the incline.

She finally spotted him sitting with his back to her on one of the large granite boulders. She dismounted her horse and tethered it to a tree roughly a hundred and fifty feet from where the Gypsy sat. She crept silently towards him, stooping behind a boulder about sixty feet short of where he sat. When she surveyed his campsite, she became aware of two major oddities. At the Gypsy's feet was a small camp fire. A rabbit, skewered by a wooden stick, was suspended above the fire. She could see no weapon, no rifle or bow, but only a small canvas satchel, which sat on the boulder beside him. Yet she knew that the kill was fresh as the discarded fur lay in a small pile beside the fire. The other thing, also notable for its absence, was that the Gypsy had no horse. The only established trails originated from the manor and they were guarded against poachers. To reach this spot on foot would have taken days of arduous hacking through the dense brush.

The song that the Gypsy had been playing segued directly into the lullaby that he had been playing the previous day. This gave Cynara a start and she considered retreating. The certitude that this man was not here to harm her, however, allayed the girl's anxiety. She believed that his presence held some profound significance. The source of this certainty eluded her, but she decided to trust it. The minstrel played several bars of the melody and then stopped suddenly and called, "Ah, little sister, you've finally come. There is no need to cower behind that boulder...come out and show yourself."

The suggestion that Cynara had been cowering infuriated her, stinging her fierce pride. She strode over to the Gypsy, trying to humble him with a withering stare. "Why are you here? You have no place here. This is the Baron Saravic's hunting preserve and it is off limits to peasants and Gypsies."

"Then why are you here, little sister? Are you not a peasant attired in an aristocrat's clothing," he retorted in a maddeningly gracious tone.

Cynara's color deepened to a rich scarlet, scarcely believing that a common Gypsy would have the temerity to address her with such insolence. She raised her riding crop above her head and swung it at his face, intending to leave him with a permanent reminder of his impudence. The riding crop made a whistling sound as it came down, but the Gypsy casually reached up and caught Cynara's wrist. He then spun her around and squeezed her wrist until she surrendered her grip on the crop. It fell to the dirt and he released her arm. She bent down to retrieve it, meaning to give it another try. Before she could collect it, he placed the flat of his boot on her rear and gave her a solid push. She was propelled forward, falling onto her face, arms and legs splayed out to the side of her body. Grass and leaves became entangled in her hair, soiling her clothes and causing her to gag as they found their way into her mouth and nostrils. The Gypsy squatted beside her and said, with a sardonic laugh, "I stand over you, while you grub through the muck like a pig. So, who is the peasant and who is the aristocrat?"

She raised her head from the ground and spat grass. She turned on her side to face him, and vowed with surprising cool detachment, "I will kill you for that. I will have your head or die trying to take it."

The Gypsy's smile faltered. There had been a hint of iron in her voice that spoke of a fierce determination. After a moment, he said, "I believe you may at that, but not now. You have much to learn about the world, about yourself. I have been selected to teach you of these things."

"You?" she laughed disdainfully. "What could a peasant like you possibly teach me?"

He grabbed her shoulders and shook her slowly. His hands were so powerful and Cynara could feel the awakening of desire deep inside of her. As much as she loathed this man, she found him attractive in equal measure. "Listen. You are a spoiled, petulant, vain little brat who could best be served by a good spanking. You scoff at everyone around you. You move among the people you refer to as peasants, with your head held high in the air as if being a Baron's daughter had conferred upon you some divine status. Your father is not nobility, no matter how much you would like him to be. You are even lower than the poor, illiterate people that you despise so much."

"How dare you speak to me this way!" she exploded. She struggled to free herself from his grasp, but could not. His rebuke stung her sorely and she could feel hot tears burning in her eyes. Why his derision should affect her so profoundly was even more mystifying than her imminent tears.

"I dare because as you live it now, Cynara Saravic, your life is a squandered waste. You pour your derision upon these people because they cannot read, cannot write and are superstitious and frightened. Yet, despite your access to the better things in life, you can barely read or write yourself. They struggle all of their lives for one opportunity and you squander every chance you are given to better yourself. You know nothing of music, art, philosophy or any other enlightened, cultural aspect of the world, and yet still you fashion yourself to be somehow superior. Stripped of your pretensions, you're not fit to clean the boots of the average peasant."

She began to cry furiously, putting her hands to her face, not wanting him to have the satisfaction of seeing how his reproof had stung her. He released her and she turned away from him, weeping silently. Cynara wanted to counterattack, but there was an irrefutable measure of truth to his allegations, and she could find nothing to say in her own defense. He saw the extent of her pain and gently laid his hand upon her shoulder. "You are fortunate to be a girl of great potential. If you will open your heart and mind, the fruits of that potential will be yours.

He tenderly turned her towards him. Her face was tear-stained and covered with grass. He withdrew a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped it all away.

"Who are you?" she whispered between her tears.

"I will be your teacher. I shall show you wonders within this world and beyond, and those within yourself. You are a special child, Cynara; a creature of a destiny to which I will be your guide."

"And what is my destiny?"

"Your destiny is power and riches perhaps, but more than this, it is immortality, child," he replied, sensing her avarice.

She placed her hand over his and entreated. "Please don't call me a child."

"You are a child. To become a woman there is a road that you must walk. Only you can decide if you have the fortitude to travel upon it. If you do, then I will show you where to begin." He placed a hand upon her wrist and another below her elbow and assisted her to her feet. He then walked over to the granite boulder where he had been seated. He knelt before her and brushed away the debris from her velvet riding clothes. Each stroke aroused a wave of warmth and desire. He then moved over to the fire and took the rabbit from the spit. Sitting cross legged on the ground, he held up the rabbit and said, "I hope that you don't mind if I eat. The journey here was long and I am hungry. Would you care to join me?"

She declined and then added, "You said that you had been sent; by whom and for what reason?"

He did not reply at once, but kept eating and watching her thoughtfully. Finally, he answered, "As to whom, it is best that you answer that question on your own. I have been sent because you have called for me, and because my mentor has decided that you could serve him well...extremely well."

"I serve no one," she retorted indignantly, the Cynara pride making its appearance.

He shook his head and granted her a knowing smile. "You have so much to learn, child. The greatest obstacle to that learning will be your own perception. Every man, every creature in this world and all worlds serve a master. There are different degrees of servitude some are just more subtle than others. Anyone who feels that he or she is accountable to no one is the biggest fool of all. Each person had been designated to a possible destiny, Cynara. Some are of little consequence and some are earthshaking. In each of these, the person has a choice; they may pursue their destiny, that instinct for fulfillment, or simply turn away from it. Nothing comes without a price and the more consequential the destiny, the greater the cost of realizing it. You are faced with an imposing choice and a frightful cost, but the rewards will exceed the very limits of your imagination."

He paused, trying to gauge her reaction. She realized that he seemed to be expecting something of her and it frustrated her to discover that she could not deduce the nature of those expectations.

"Why me? You've made a point of showing me how ignorant and childish I am, so what could possibly be special or earth shattering about me?" she demanded, wary of this apparent paradox.

"You are a child of destiny, girl. You are different from the others and in your heart and soul; you know this to be true. This difference has been noted and so I have been dispatched to show you the road. You may travel upon it or you may turn away from it. I can only tell you that if you should turn away from it, the opportunity will never come again." He withdrew the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the grease from his lips. When again he spoke, the gravity was gone from his voice. "I must go. Who is to say that someone won't turn me in as a poacher?"

He rose and strode to the opposite end of the ravine. When he had reached the crest, he stood there and spread his arms before him. Cynara detected movement beyond the tree line and suddenly a dozen or more wolves emerged from the trees and surrounded the Gypsy. Surprisingly, their posture was servile and fawning. They collected about him as though he were sacred. "Go home and give thought to what I have told you. Do you wish to remain a petty local heiress, or do you have the courage to chance an apotheosis. I will be here tomorrow. I will wait here until dusk. If you decide to return then your preparation shall begin. Should you not return, I shall leave, taking your one opportunity when I do."

He turned briskly and marched off into the trees. She watched him go, enveloped in a thickening fog of confusion. There were so many unanswered questions, that she did not know where to begin. He had made a lot of vague allusions to power and a road to follow, but she still had no clue as to his motivations or intentions. Despite his being evasive, there was a degree of truth to his words. She was ignorant to the ways of the world and had much to learn about the turbulent, perplexing nature of her own heart. Perhaps this was why she envied her brother and sister as she did. She rose and made her way back to her stallion. Mounting the horse, she began the long trip home.

She slept very little that night, but by the morning's first light she had reached a decision. Though he was veiled in mystery, she had decided to trust the Gypsy and to explore the promise he had made. If she found that he had deceived her, he would pay dearly for his deception. As she perceived the situation, she had no real choice in the matter. If she elected to decline his rather vague offer, she would spend the rest of her life wondering exactly what she had forsaken.

She had ridden back to the ravine and as he had promised, he was waiting for her. The man's charismatic presence aroused the young Cynara and she could no longer deny that the desire which she felt was sexual in nature. He did not smile when he first saw her and she felt a pang of disappointment. When she dismounted and moved over to where he sat, she noticed that he seemed somewhat somber and distracted. "So, you have made your choice. From this day forth, you will be committed to the one path. Are you sure that you can accept this?"

"Yes," she replied adamantly.

He seemed to consider this for a long time and still she could see traces of regret in his eyes. This sudden vulnerability made the mysterious Gypsy all the more desirable. She felt a sudden compulsion to kiss him. He did not look directly at her, staring instead at the fire, and said, "In this world there is a war that is constant and everlasting. It is a battle between good and evil."

He tilted his head to one side, as if he were listening to a voice that only he could hear. "Each individual's disposition is comprised of a certain measure of both, though it is the balance of these which dictates the person's cast."

"I don't think I quite understand," interrupted Cynara.

"A person's soul is judged to be good or evil through his thoughts and actions. On rare occasions, there is born a creature of pure good or pure evil. These are the ultimate soldiers in the Holy war. They are the most coveted. Cynara, you are one of these rare persons. She felt herself shocked by his words, shocked and bitterly disappointed. This Gypsy was a religious zealot and a madman, but despite this, she could not resist asking, "And which am I?"

"Look inside of yourself and you will find the answer to your own question," he replied. "To grasp the mysteries of predestination it is first necessary to plumb the dark depths of your own soul."

He commenced questioning her about her inner feelings and desires. He probed the deepest recesses of her mind to expose feelings that she never knew that she possessed. He did this again and again over the next two weeks. Then there were the stories. He spent hours regaling her with tales of the outside world. Some of these tales she did not believe, so alien were the places and the people he described. Despite this, she found herself mesmerized by his narratives and delighted by the new emotions that he had aroused within her. She could no longer deny that she had fallen in love with him and longed for him to tell her that he felt the same, but time continued to pass and he did not.

On the fifteenth day, she came to him and found him to be morose and distracted. When she questioned him as to the cause of his mood, he fixed her with his strange gaze and said, "I have shown you things about yourself that should indicate to you what you are. If your heart and soul are truly open, I must ask you to declare yourself."

She looked into her heart and saw nothing, no light, only blackness and the inherent truth which this prevalent darkness implied.

"I am a creature of the night," she whispered. The relief at speaking these words aloud filled her with such great ecstasy that she screamed them. "I am a creature of the night; a child of blackness."

She roared this as if to shake the heavens and every corner of hell. She turned to the Gypsy, her eyes staring wildly and her heart thundering with the ecstasy of revelation.

"This is the truth, isn't it?" she demanded, feeling that some long imprisoned part of her had been emancipated and empowered to assert itself.

He stood and walked to the campfire. Once there, he bent forward and thrust his hand into the heart of the flames. She gasped, expecting him to cry out in agony. Instead, he simply held his hand there, displaying not even the slightest hint of discomfort. Then he raised his hand from the fire. The flames had found purchase upon his flesh and his whole hand was alive with their fury. "No, you are not a creature of the night. With time and instruction, you will become one, just as I am one."

He emphasized this by waving his hand and extinguishing the flame. The flesh was unmarred by the ravages of the flame. "To become a true believer you must shuffle off this mortal coil, as Shakespeare once put it. To obtain immortality, it is first necessary to forfeit this pathetic imitation of life and to accept the prince of darkness as your one true master."

"Do you mean that I must die?" she asked, stunned by the demand for such exorbitant sacrifice, though he had warned her that the price of ascension would be high.

"If you wish, but it might be better to say that you must learn to live."

Of course there was the inevitable fear, but that terror was obviated by an insatiable craving. She had come this far and in her heart she understood that there could be no retreat. "If it is what must be done, then so be it." She moved over to him and held his arm. "Please, tell me what I must do."

Behind his eyes, she could sense a conflict of emotions, as if he was struggling to find the precise words. "Ah, my beautiful Cynara, if only things could be different."

She watched him, mystified by the anguish in his voice. After a time, he regained his composure. "Tomorrow night, you will undergo the ritual of the turning and you will become the child of the darkness that you were born to be. Once you have undergone the turning, all bridges to this old life will be forever burned. Do you understand this?"

"Yes!" she replied in a voice resonating with conviction.

"When the sun sets tomorrow, you will return here. Wear your black velvet cape and a black satin dress. I will baptize you into his faith. You will give up your soul in return for the powers that you have always coveted. Go and look inside of yourself. Prepare for your new world." His voice sounded harsh and this hurt her deeply.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked, wanting him to share her jubilation.

"No, child. If I harbor any anger, it is only toward me. I suspect that you will never understand why because yours is the potential to be a greater night creature than I have ever been. I only wished that I was not the one to have turned you. I have many regrets, but this may be the greatest of them all. Please Cynara, go now."

She shrugged and did as he requested. As she rode the miles to her home, she resolved to make him abandon his regrets. She felt so vital, so vibrant. The world was at her feet, all that she had to do was to reach down and take it. Tomorrow, she would do just that and the world would be hers.

4

Cynara slept fitfully during her final night as a human being. She finally fell into an uneasy slumber just before dawn. It was past noon when she finally rose, feeling disoriented, as if something crucial had escaped her while she slept. She went through her daily bathing ritual and dressed as she had been instructed. She was dismayed to find that the heavens had opened up and was pouring torrents of rain onto the defenseless earth. Huge thunder heads hovered ominously on the western horizon, indicating that the rain had every intention of staying the day.

She was distracted to the point of being skitterish and when Alasha came up behind her, laying a hand upon her shoulder. Cynara actually jumped and cried out.

"What is the matter, Cynara?" Alasha inquired. Cynara appeared more restive than usual.

"The storm; I suppose that it has me on edge." Her explanation sounded feeble to her own ears. Alasha merely nodded and left Cynara to herself. Experience had taught the older sister that withdrawal was the most prudent course in dealing with Cynara's moodiness.

After what had seemed like an eternity, the day relented to the dusk and Cynara made her final preparation to leave. As she had been instructed, she found a hooded, velvet cloak and crept furtively down the stairs and into the kitchen. The servants had completed their appointed tasks and departed for the night, so she was able to slip out undetected. The air felt cool and pleasant on her face, though it caused her skin to tingle with the electricity of expectation. Then the storm that had been threatening during the day broke. Streaks of lightning cracked the heavens, illuminating her in a whitish glow. She stole deeper into the shadows and proceeded to the stable. The horses had been alarmed by the onset of the storm and she had a fair deal of difficulty saddling her stallion. The fear that someone would hear her and come to investigate was nearly paralyzing and slowed matters even further. She was not sure what she would do if she was to be discovered, but she knew that they would not allow her to venture out on such a night. If this were to happen, the Gypsy would leave and everything would be lost. She redoubled her efforts to finish saddling the horse and after several frustrating minutes, finally succeeded. She mounted him and set off into the heart of the wild night.

During the day, the trip to the ravine was precarious and Cynara feared that a night trip would be extremely hazardous. The previous night, she had dreamt that she had tumbled from her horse and lay injured, while her destiny faded away with every passing second. However, the passage went smoothly enough, as if she and her stallion were being guided by an unseen hand. Two hours after she had set out, Cynara caught her first glimpse of the camp fire through the trees.

She emerged out of the darkness into the circle of light. At once, the baying of wolves filled the damp air, causing Cynara's horse to whinny and kick. She fought to regain control and eventually managed to placate the beast. Then the Gypsy stepped into the light. He wore a black robe with gold trim along its hem. "So little sister, the moment of truth is upon you. You are about to slip the bonds of the half life, to become a creature of the night as providence intended you to be. A rather auspicious event, wouldn't you agree... the birth of a dark princess?

The melancholy of the previous day had vanished, replaced by joviality that Cynara suspected was somewhat contrived.

"An event such as this deserves an audience," he continued, speaking as if he were the ring master of a circus. He clapped his hands and the wolves loped out of the darkness to sit in a circle along the perimeter of light. Cynara quickly dismounted, fearing the appearance of the wolves would drive her horse to frenzy.

"Let the beast run free," the Gypsy commanded and Cynara obeyed automatically. The horse bolted out of the light and along the path by which it had come. The Gypsy smiled as he surveyed the wolves. "They are a fitting audience for the night's ceremony. There is one ingredient missing."

Again he clapped his hands and two black robed women materialized as though out of air. Both were statuesque females, with dark hair and raven eyes. Each was extremely beautiful. Their presence infuriated Cynara, as she had no wish to share her moment with anyone but him.

"Who are the whores?" she flared derisively, making no attempt to conceal her displeasure.

"This is Carlotta," he said, gesturing towards the girl on his left. "And this is Serene. They are my assistants and companions. You would be well advised to restrain your ire or you may not survive this ritual in one piece," he admonished jovially.

Just then, a brilliant bolt of lightening arced down from the sky.

"Shall we take that as a sign to proceed," he suggested.

He appeared to be enjoying this immensely. Cynara could not gauge the source of that pleasure and felt the first stirring of uncertainty in the pit of her stomach.

"What do you require of me?" she asked, unable to subdue the slight trembling in her voice and hating herself for that weakness.

"Come here girl," he commanded. With seeming reluctance, she moved over to where he stood. He reached out and unfastened the clasps of her cloak. He then pushed the cloak away from her shoulders. It billowed soundlessly to the grass, where it was gathered by Serene and laid aside. He took Cynara's hand and squired her to a large granite boulder. The top of the boulder was fairly flat. A wool blanket had been draped over its surface.

"Remove your dress," he instructed, peering directly into her beautiful, amber flecked eyes. There was an implicit challenge in both his tone and unflinching gaze. She rose to meet it with an unencumbered passion. Reaching behind her neck, she released the clasp of her dress and slowly inched the snaps downward. When the dress had parted a sufficient amount to allow her freedom, she shrugged it off in a lascivious manner that would later become her trademark. Beneath the satin dress, Cynara was completely naked. She stood before the three of them, unabashed by her nudity and their leering gazes. She placed her hands upon her hips in sensuous defiance and smiled slyly, "And now what would you have me do?"

The Gypsy was moved by the girl's beauty, for though she was only sixteen, she already possessed many of the physical attributes that would make her an irresistible temptress. His thoughts were most evident, as Cynara asked teasingly, "Do you like what you see, Gypsy?"

"Don't be coy, Cynara, you know quite well that I do?" he replied. "Cynara, I must ask you a question and it is imperative that you answer it truthfully. In fact, your very life depends upon it."

"Ask your question, Gypsy," she retorted, youthful and haughtily in her overt challenge.

"Are you a virgin, girl?" he asked softly. Whatever she had expected, it hadn't been this. "Why...why must you know this?"

"No virgin may enter his service. Virginity is a form of physical purity and any form of purity, be it physical or spiritual, cannot be converted. Before the conversion may proceed, that purity must be defiled." he said.

"And if it is not?" Cynara asked, grasping the inference and becoming heated by the prospect.

"If a virgin is subjected to the turning it will kill her and her soul will be consigned to wherever it was destined before her death," he concluded gravely.

Cynara smiled shyly, her coyness masking her elation. "I am a virgin. What do you intend to do to rectify the situation?"

"I believe you know," he replied. "You have agreed to undergo the turning and to do so you must relinquish your virginity. I will be the one to relieve you of your maidenhead." With this he shed his robe and glided towards her. She shook with anticipation, tempered by a cold thread of fear of unknown realms. The Gypsy's body thrilled Cynara, with its graceful, leonine muscles and powerful lines and as he surrounded her with his arms and swept her up, she moaned loudly. He lifted her onto the granite boulder and tenderly laid her upon the blanket. She held her arms out to him and he came into them. Their coupling was violent and frenzied. An incisive pain brought a cry to her lips, as his manhood pierced her hymen, but this relented to a flooding sensation that was so pleasurable that she was overcome by its power. She started to cry out in a litany of delight as her body jerked and danced in ways she never imagined possible. A flood of warmth filled her loins, telling her that he had experienced the same sensation. At last, he pulled away from her, panting at the exertion of the act. He breathed, "Now dear, the way is paved and the ritual of the turning may commence."

He signaled for Carlotta and Serene, who moved over to Cynara as she lay shaking from the aftermath. Each held two coils of rope which they proceeded to tie around her wrists and ankles. When the loops had been firmly knotted, they secured the other ends of the ropes to four stakes which had been driven into the ground around the boulder. Cynara watched the two impassively, as they went about their tasks, noticing the expressionless faces and the inscrutable eyes. Though both were endowed with exquisite female forms, they appeared bereft of emotion or the capacity to experience physical reaction. Succinctly put, they looked dead. Seeing their cold, lifeless eyes only exacerbated her mounting disquiet.

"Gypsy, please tell me your name," she pleaded, needing to feel some type of camaraderie with at least one of these people, especially the man she had fallen in love with. He could discern her anxiety and came over to where she lay. He offered her an affectionate smile and with more genuine compassion than Cynara could ever be capable of, intoned "I have been known by many names, but I lived my human life with the name Gregory."

"Does it hurt, this dying, Gregory?" she inquired, afraid to know the answer and even more terrified not to know.

He bent forward and, kissing her brow tenderly, whispered, "There will be a moment of pain and then an eternity of sweetness. The sooner that we begin, the sooner you will be reborn to your destiny."

"I love you Gregory," she sighed and her eyes indicated that she was ready. He nodded to the night shades and then disappeared from her view. The storm peaked, shaking both heaven and earth as if in outrage at the abomination which was about to be created. The women reappeared in her range of vision. Serene held a copper chalice and Carlotta, a lacquered wooden box. It was rectangular and Cynara guessed correctly that it held the instrument of her delivery. Carlotta carried the box to Gregory, who placed it upon the boulder near Cynara's feet. With either thumb, he sprang the two silver latches. The lid flipped open and she could see a brilliant gleam reflected in his eyes. He reached into the case and withdrew a dagger. Cynara gasped, stunned by its lethal beauty. The blade was ten inches long and exquisitely honed. Its haft was encrusted with a breathtaking arrangement of emeralds. It was the loveliest killing tool that she had ever seen.

Gregory proffered it to the heavens and bellowed defiantly, "Look upon this, miscreant God of sheep. Let the rubbish of heaven bear witness to the triumph of the darkness." He then lowered the dagger to his lips and kissed it with reverence. "Sanctify this instrument that it may speed your child, Cynara Saravic, through the ritual of the ordination and baptize her in the glory of your kingdom."

He beckoned the two women to assume their assigned positions. Serena held the chalice below Cynara's left breast. It felt cool and refreshing against her sweat soaked skin. Carlotta moved to the end of the boulder where Cynara's arms had been secured. She clamped down on Cynara's shoulders, holding them with numbing force. Gregory moved around the makeshift table with a lithesome urgency and positioned himself next to her left breast. Again he raised the dagger above his head, holding the haft with both hands.

"Speed this dagger along its path, Oh Father of Darkness, make its course swift and true, that this child's passage be smoothed!" the three devil spawn intoned.

Gregory peered directly into Cynara's eyes. "Cynara, do you accept the master and forfeit your soul to his keeping? Do you promise to serve him eternally, putting no other before him?"

She could feel long recumbent forces stirring from their slumbers about her. Her nerve endings were attuned to their vibrations as they gathered to strike, focusing through the knife poised above her. She gazed deep into the imperfect blackness of heaven's vault. She could see her road emblazoned across the sky.

"Yes!" she bellowed with every ounce of energy that her body could muster.

He spared her one final glance and then deftly plunged the knife into her chest. It punctured the ligature of the rib cage two inches below the left breast, between the two ribs. The blade ruptured her heart, sending blood spurting into the night air in a crimson geyser. Cynara screamed, but her cry was lost in the roar of the thunder which reverberated through the sky. Gregory pushed downward on the haft of the dagger, driving it deep into the chambers of her faltering heart. At first the pain was excruciating, but after an interminable time, it began to subside, yielding to a pervasive numbness. Serene had positioned the chalice so that it could catch the outpouring of blood. The hollow of the chalice filled rapidly as the ruined heart relinquished the last of its precious cargo.

Cynara accepted her imminent death, surprised that she experienced neither distress nor regret. Death was not the hell of agony that she had imagined it to be. It was more akin to a gradual submersion into a sea of slumbers. As she receded from the light, she managed to whisper. "Gregory, please hold my hand."

The Gypsy released his grip on the dagger. It protruded from her chest the way that a butcher's knife protruded from a slaughtered animal. He took her trembling hand in his which was spattered with her blood. She smiled weakly, her courage astounding him. Gregory could only feel a bleak dejection over his part in this blasphemy. Gradually, the hand lost the strength to grip and then fell slack. Cynara Saravic was dead. The reanimation portion of the ritual could now commence. He released her hand and withdrew the dagger from her heart. This, he handed to Carlotta, who wiped the blade and replaced the dagger in its case.

"Now sisters," Gregory said, "lay your hands upon the chalice, quickly." The exigency of an expeditious completion was critical if the ritual was to succeed. Past failures had demonstrated that delay in reanimating the body could result in a severe diminution of the mental capacities. It had been made clear that Cynara must suffer no permanent degeneration from the transformation. It was imperative that this woman be returned with her faculties in tact. The implicit threat had not been lost on Gregory.

Each laid their hands upon the chalice and began to chant the ancient invocation that would call forth the re-animator:

O Lucifer, Father of Darkness, impart to your children the power so we might recreate this child in your image, and send her forth to do your bidding.

Simultaneously, each night creature went rigid, as an electrical pulse coursed through their bodies. A blue glow suffused the contents of the chalice, raising the blood to a frenetic boil. An acrid aroma filled the air and the magnitude of the light became blinding. The three positioned the chalice over the wound and poured the boiling liquid into the gaping wound. Their hands never wavered and they continued to pour until the chalice had given up every last drop. The blue effulgence vanished, and the storm abated, plunging the forest into an expectant silence. The three exchanged anxious glances. There was a palpable current of tension in the air. The trio could only wait nervously while the runes of fate cast their judgment. The very heavens seemed to be poised expectantly and the moments passed.

5

Everything had dissolved into a pervasive blackness and it was this that first struck her when some sense of cognizance returned. She could feel an intense, alien heat coursing through the alleyways of her being. Something was fundamentally different about the way that she now perceived everything, but she could not be precisely certain what this difference was. A dim light appeared in the heart of the darkness and though she had no references, it seemed to be a great distance away. The light was growing in size and magnitude, drawing her to conclude that she was moving in its direction. She rocketed forward at an incredible speed, as the void opened up into a field of stars. Cynara shot through the universe, passing stars and then galaxies, in a blaze of blue white light. Her mind was bombarded by a collage of images, at once splendid and frightening.

She intuited that she was moving towards some specific destination, as she passed through nebulas and asteroid belts with equal ease. The awesome spectacle of a comet dazzled her senses as it hurtled past. Something off to her left appeared to absorb everything in its path, swallowing light like a ravenous beast. She did not know what it was and soon it slipped from sight as she plunged further into the cosmos. Despite traveling at a speed far greater than that of light, she could feel no external pressure. A red dot had grown at the limit of her vision until it now spanned the horizons of the universe. It did not have any specific features, but instead was composed of infinite layers of light. It was this anomaly she was destined for and its appearance evoked a mind-boggling euphoria. Her mind conjured up a psychic neon sign that flashed a single word. That word was Utopia. This gave way to an even greater concept...Heaven. Cynara wanted ingress to the kingdom...wanting to sustain this present state of ecstasy for all eternity. To her consternation, she began to slow, as if some invisible force field was protecting the light. "No please." she wanted to beseech the keeper, but evidently she had lost the faculty of speech, because she could not give voice to her despair.

The resistance against her forward progress increased. She felt as if she were being restrained by an elastic band. At the approximate centre of the light a lipless mouth appeared and uttered one withering word of denial. "NO!"

The word was delivered with the tone of absolute finality. In response to its absolute authority, an invisible hand hurled her backwards, in the direction from which she had come. She was propelled back through the vast expanses of the universe, into the void. Her jubilation at the prospect of heaven evaporated, leaving in its place, the bleakest despair that one could ever feel...rejection in the face of God. She re-entered the darkness, leaving the universe behind her, and continued into the wasteland of all existence. After a time, another red light began to grow at the centre of the void. Unlike the effulgence of the first light, this beacon was dull and listless. As it grew ever closer, Cynara came to understand that she must be heading towards the antithesis of the kingdom of light...that her final destination must be hell. Her suspicions were soon confirmed as she rocketed out of the void and into a chamber that resembled a huge inverted bowl. The chamber was vast, so vast, in fact, that its limits were undetectable to the naked eye.

She stopped, suspended in midair, and gazed about the interior. Multitudes of men, women and children languished in the throes of a variety of torments. As she watched, a perverse kind of excitement began to build within her. Here, a man was being held down, while a faceless demon drove spikes into his arms, legs and body. He wailed in agony, his inescapable pain distorting his crude features. There, a woman was being raped by a group of demons. They assaulted her brutally, ravaging her body without restraint.

Cynara's preternatural eyesight was sharp, for she could see blood streaming from the woman's vagina. Most disturbing of all was the sight of a small child being torn apart and fed upon by a pack of jackals. They ripped his flesh to pieces in a mindless frenzy. The entire chamber was a charnel pit of hideous torture and agony.

"Come child," a voice called out to her from below. She scanned the masses and saw a man gazing up at her and beckoning her to come to him. The next moment she was standing face to face with the Prince of Darkness. He was totally different from her preconceived notion of what he would be like. He was quite handsome and rather angelic, save for his malicious, mirthful eyes; not at all, the fiendish monster that the Church portrayed.

"I have been awaiting your arrival, child," He reached out and held her shoulders, giving her an appraising once over. "Ah yes, you are beauty personified. You will serve me well." He bent forward and kissed her brow in a paternal way that filled Cynara with contentment and warmth.

"What is happening here?" Cynara asked, gazing about with a mixture of satisfaction and incredulity.

"This is retribution, dear one," he replied. "Punishment in kind. The man you noticed killed with a hammer and nails. The woman was a lewd whore and the boy tortured animals. They have all been fitted with a deserving punishment."

"How long will they have to endure this?" she murmured, pleased by the concept of poetic justice.

"For all eternity, of course," he replied with a quizzical grin. "Go now, and do my bidding." And she did, resuming her journey, now heading back into the void. At once the sensation of movement ceased, as her real body began to register impulses and sensations once again. She opened her eyes to see three faces looming over her. She knew them to be Gregory and his two assistants. They looked at her expectantly, but she said nothing, choosing to silently revel in the heightened perceptual acuity that the changes had engineered. Her body had been refined. It had become invulnerable. She sat up and regarded the three flatly. "You, bitch," she snarled at Carlotta, "bring me my robe."

Carlotta glowered, but Gregory instructed her to do as she had been told. She shot him a smoldering glare, but picked up the robe and carried it to the girl.

"Now Gregory, we have much to discuss, so dismiss your two whores," There was a tone of undeniable authority in her voice. He was amazed by the degree and rapidity of change which she displayed. She had come to him as an innocent, naive, spoiled brat and emerged from The Turning as a formidable night creature. Cynara felt as if some unseen veil had been pulled away to reveal the world as it really was. With this new clarity, she could go forward into the world, unencumbered by debilitating emotions such as love, compassion or sympathy, and reap the sweetest fruits it had to offer. This Gypsy could explain the tools which were at her disposal. She could feel the puissance coursing through her veins, but she did not know the nature or extent of this new force. This Gypsy would tell her and then she would send him away. The Turning had dispelled her foolish misconceptions about what he was. Gregory was a weak, vacillating fool, ruled by romantic notions and misguided philosophy. He was unworthy of the powers he'd been granted and she was eager to be rid of him. First, however, she required him to define the limits of her new world. After Carlotta and Serene had moved out of earshot, Cynara demanded, "You know what I am going to ask you, don't you Gregory?"

"Of Course Cynara, you wish to know about your new being, about your new universe." The Gypsy paused, appalled by the horror which he had wrought. In most turnings, the subject returned feeling odd and disconnected. Only after they had learned to utilize their newfound skills, did they begin to change. Some, such as he, even managed to retain a small portion of their humanity. At any rate, the change had always been gradual, making their transformation difficult to detect. This girl had possessed eyes that were mischievous. Now they were cold, inscrutable and dispassionate. He must impress upon her the need for restraint. "The powers you have been given are very nearly limitless. You will be able to read the thoughts of others and determine what type of people they are. You will be able to divine their weaknesses. Your mind will find leverage over nearly everyone you encounter."

"Why then can I not read your thoughts?" she interrupted Gregory. He noted her concentration and was impressed with her ability to ask the pertinent questions.

"Creatures of our kind are beyond the bounds of this power." he explained. She simply nodded and said no more. "We also have the ability to project thoughts and images, as well as limited divination of the future. In terms of our physical beings, we are virtually indestructible. We have the power to become more substantial, until we are as hard as stone, or less substantial so that we float like the mist. We may feel external sensations or close them off completely, putting ourselves beyond the reach of bodily pain. You saw this when I held the fire in my hand. We have the ability to change forms, to become shape shifters. The number of things that we may change to is dictated by our personal power and imagination. I may change to a wolf or a snake, but other things are beyond my reach. Despite this limitation, we may still create illusions in the minds of human beings. It is possible that this veil of illusion may be penetrated if the human has a strong enough will. Each night creature has his or her own idiosyncrasy that they must discover on their own. It is their special weapon if you will."

"How do I gain access to my skills?" she asked.

"This is a simple matter, though it seems impossible to some at first. If you concentrate and visualize specific actions in your mind's eye, then in time, you may meld them into reality. It is true of human life: that if you can not see it in your mind, then could you possibly create it in the real world?"

"Gregory, spare me the rhetoric," she snapped impatiently. "What of the special weapon, can this be harnessed in the same way?"

"No. To find this power requires time and growth. You must realize, Cynara, that night creatures are not all equal. All possess the same powers, but to varying degrees. I am not certain, but I suspect that our level of power is determined by the spiritual purity of our souls. I believe that you will grow to be powerful."

She chose to ignore his couched barb and said, "There seems to be an alien force within me, demanding release. It is pressing at the walls of my being and the fabric of my body. It seems to be a presence apart from my own. Is this correct?"

"The other that you feel is the beast. We are his spawn and he is inside of us. The beast is the embodiment of everything evil; violence, hatred, rage and unrestrained fury. When he is released, nothing in his path is safe. We must learn to control the beast and only use his power only when there is no other recourse. When we are first turned, this proves most difficult, because he is strong and we are not yet adept at keeping him within. Extreme anger or fear will summon him forth, so you must learn to subjugate your anger. The beast should be a last resort. We are here to gather souls through guile and temptation, to corrupt them. If the beast destroys them, then their soul has not been violated and we lose them. It is imperative that you understand this. Learn to control the beast. In the past, some night creatures were unable to do this and it became necessary to destroy them."

Cynara turned her attention to the wound on her chest. Though it had been inflicted only hours ago, the wound was nearly healed; now nothing more than a superficial laceration. Gregory watched her and said, "Nothing, save God and Satan, is invulnerable and we are no exception."

He reached down and held up the oak box. He opened the lid and handed the box to Cynara. To her new eyes, the dagger was even more exquisite than it had been before. With her right index finger, she traced its cold, lethal edge. Gregory continued, as she examined the weapon, "This is the only thing upon the earth, with which a human being may destroy you. For every demon who walks this earth, there exists one of these daggers. It is the agent by which they were turned and it is the sole means by which they may be destroyed. The dagger, itself, is indestructible and therefore it is your task to keep it away from those who would contrive to bring it against you."

"It shall remain well hidden," she proclaimed with total certitude.

"It is for you to decide how best to dispose of the dagger," he continued. Then switching to a less formal, more personal tone, he added, "You have chosen your path and have been endowed with great powers, but you must learn how to employ them. You cannot detach yourself from this world. Instead, you must learn to live within it." She waved her hand at him, exhorting him to be quiet. "I need nothing more of you. Go, I can tolerate the sight of you no more."

Gregory would not be bated. He shook his head sadly, then rose and moved to follow Carlotta and Serene. When he had reached the edge of the trees, Cynara called after him. He turned, expectantly, seeing the tall, beautiful woman child, sitting alone in the darkness.

"Gregory, do you remember when we first met? I promised that I would have your head. I have not forgotten that promise any more than I have forgotten the humiliating taste of dirt in my mouth. Someday I will make good on that vow." Gregory, who had lived three hundred years and heard many threats, shivered, but did not reply. He turned and walked away, contemplating the terror that he had just unleashed upon the world. Cynara watched him go and sat there staring after him, long after he had faded from sight.

Cynara came back to herself, lying upon her day bed. The world had changed radically since then and so had she. She had developed her power surprisingly quickly. It had continued to multiply, year after year. She would orchestrate a campaign of terror which would leave this town gasping for breath and screaming for mercy. Then she would destroy it. This done, she would claim her prize and move on.

The journey through the past had dispelled the misgivings that had afflicted her. She was Cynara Saravic, after all; the Devil's favored daughter. Nothing could stand in the way of her desires. She smiled at this and began to chart the course of Semelar's descent into hell.

Chapter Ten: Avery Ponders

While Cynara lay, plotting the course of Semelar's destruction, Avery Mathis sat grappling with the details and contradictions of two gruesome murders. His head pounded as if it were caught in some invisible vice, and his stomach was engaged in a series of long slow rolls. He sat alone in his office, which was dark save for the small circle of light that was cast by a single desk tensor lamp. His desk was covered by an assortment of files and reports. They were pieces of the puzzle that Mathis was desperately attempting to solve. Thus far, his efforts to extract some type of working pattern from the mass of confusing and conflicting details had been futile and frustrating. He had succeeded only in giving himself a thundering headache. No matter how he aligned the pieces, they resisted his best efforts to fit them together.

The day had been the longest and the most trying of his life and there seemed to be no light at the end of the tunnel. The gruesome spectacle of Jeffery Cooper's mutilated corpse had given way to the pitiable sight of Viola Cooper being forcibly restrained and sedated. She was taken to Semelar County General, where she had been placed in restraints for her own protection. Later in the afternoon, Avery had received a telephone call from that officious little prick, Vernon Masterton, who was the town mayor. Masterton had called to impress upon Mathis the need for a quick solution to the heinous crime. Mathis had fought grimly to restrain the urge to tell him to go fuck himself. He had succeeded, forcing himself to tolerate the lecture and promising Masterton to act as quickly as possible. The conversation had left him with a foul taste in his mouth, as if he had just swallowed a quart of sewer water.

The preliminary reports shed no light on the whos or hows of the murder. On the contrary, the accumulation of details only raised more disturbing questions and gave the entire investigation macabre overtones. Mathis sifted through the sheaves of paper before him and located the coroner's report. Amazingly, there wasn't a drop of blood left in the boy's body...not even dried blood along the edges of the massive wounds. There was blood, however, inside the cranium of the boy. The coroner had thought that this was particularly noteworthy because normally, total removal of the body's blood required mechanical assistance. This implied that a medical professional could have been involved in the murder, but the way in which the corpse had been torn apart contradicted this and made it unlikely. It had not been precise but crude and brutal. He had personally supervised the site investigation. There were no tracks or unidentified fingerprints on the mailbox or the pole.

The shoulders of Bateman road were composed of loose dirt, but the only vehicle tracks to be found were those of Joe Emery's Fairlane. Likewise, Emery's prints were the only ones to be found on the mailbox. His professional instinct unequivocally rejected the idea that Emery had killed the Cooper boy. Mathis knew that Emery was a mean spirited old man, but he had been in a near catatonic state this morning and Mathis was certain this shock had been genuine. No, Joe Emery was not a murderer...that would be too simple, too convenient. Mathis intuited that nothing in Semelar would be simple anymore.

There were several other oddities about the murder; questions which were not only difficult to answer on their own, but when combined, presented a series of impossible contradictions. The lack of tire tracks could be explained if the killer had left the vehicle running on the asphalt, but this would have been suspicious should someone have come along. Still, it was at least possible. The fact that no blood could be found on or in the corpse, suggested that the murder and subsequent mutilation of the body had occurred in another location. Furthermore, after a thorough examination, Avery ruled out the possibility that the murderers may have tried to eliminate any tracks that they may have left. The Coroner's report indicated that Jeffery Cooper's body (minus the head of course, his mind interjected, much to his dismay.) weighed eighty four pounds. The body had been suspended twelve feet in the air. This suggested several things; first, it would have been virtually impossible for a single person to hold the body in position while affixing it to the pole; second, it meant that the body must have been hoisted into position, to allow it to be nailed into place. This would have been impossible without a ladder; unless the killer had wings. In spite of this seemingly logical assumption, no marks had been found near the foot of the pole. The ground was undisturbed. So what did all of this mean? Avery did not know. In truth, he was totally baffled. Then there was the question of the mailbox; how had entry been gained into the box? The box had not been tampered with and therefore, must have been opened with a key. By whom? Joe Emery? Mathis doubted it, but he still felt obligated to have Emery brought in for further questioning. There was a remote chance that Joe could be one of the collaborators and his discovery had been a kind of ruse to throw off the scent. This seemed far fetched, but he would investigate until he could rule Emery out. At any rate, he was confronted by several questions and precious few answers.

Mathis was sickened by the murders. The corpses had been brutalized with a mind to evoking the greatest possible shock. He only had to close his eyes and conjure up the vivid picture of the Cooper boy's corpse to know that they had succeeded. The motive for the actual murder was beyond his sensibilities, but it was the way in which the body had been meticulously arranged in anticipation of its eventual discovery that frightened him. Why had the killers been seeking to achieve maximum shock effect? The body was meant to taunt the investigators and terrorize and horrify the public. What had Colonel Kurtz said in Apocalypse Now? "You must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends or they are your enemies." In a twisted way, this was true. The body had been left there to signal that more murders were imminent. It had not taken long for events to confirm this. At twelve thirty that morning, one of his patrol cars had come across the remains of a body in the Semelar warehouse district. In some respects, this body was even more repulsive than the Cooper corpse. When the medical examiner had surveyed the damage, he shuffled over to Avery to make his preliminary report. His face was pallid and there was a slight tremble in his voice. "Avery, the deceased had multiple fractures and contusions, as well as several broken teeth and some internal injuries. In my opinion, he died from a self inflicted stab wound. I won't be able to confirm this until I've completed an autopsy."

The M.E. stopped. Mathis had the distinct impression that he wanted to say more. "Is there something more?"

He looked directly in to Avery's eyes and Mathis could see the other man's shock and abhorrence. "Mathis, something has been at the corpse. A good portion of the arms and legs were consumed."

"Eaten?" Mathis whispered. Surely he had misunderstood. Cannibalism? No, things like that didn't happen; not in the world of neon and concrete.

"Yes, Goddamn it. Someone or something tore huge chunks of flesh out of his arms and legs!" he cried. Mathis could see that he was on the verge of hysteria, so he dismissed him. "Okay Doc, go home. You can give me a full report tomorrow."

The doctor had shuffled off into the night, looking shell-shocked, leaving Mathis to confront the growing horror alone. Now Avery knew that the deceased was one Eddy Holmgren, who as his police record signified, was a borderline psychotic himself. Avery felt a small but inexpressible gratitude that the victim had been the kind of man that he had been. Nonetheless, no one deserved to die in this fashion. Avery could picture him, in the moments before his death, lying there while something closed in upon him. Evidently, he had decided that death by his own hand was preferable to the death that was about to be dispensed to him.

Avery swiveled in his chair, turning away from the ill-fitting puzzle pieces, and gazed out the window into the night. His reflection in the glass looked tired and harried. He could feel the weariness settle into his bones, making itself at home as if it intended to stay awhile.

"Gonna be a long winter," he murmured to himself.

A second murder, hard on the heels of the first, did not bode well for the town of Semelar. It would not be unthinkable to believe that the two murders were unrelated. No, not unthinkable, but probably very foolish and even fatal.

He suspected that this was the beginning of some demented sort of terror campaign. He held this suspicion yesterday and this second death seemed a confirmation of that theory. _'Mutilation and now cannibalism, what in God's name am I up against?'_ he thought He had no idea. What were these people trying to achieve? He didn't have an answer for that one either. His inability to produce concrete answers made him feel impotent, useless. Seeing the Cooper boy and then Holmgren had scribed an indelible mark upon his psyche. That terrified look in Holmgren's dead eyes haunted Mathis. What had he seen just before he had plunged the knife into his own throat. Dr. Mitchell had said that the message left with the Cooper boy's corpse read like some type of satanic proclamation. He fervently prayed this was not the case. In Police College, he had studied cases involving satanic crimes. Occultists exhibited a flare for brutality and an appetite for murder. If these murders marked the emergence of a satanic cult, then Semelar could be in for a long brutal siege. Tomorrow he would embark down plodding path towards solving these crimes with the aid of the meager collection of facts at his disposal. The clock was his enemy and he was already losing two to nothing. He felt drowsy and closed his eyes to assuage the burning. Soon he slipped into an uneasy doze.

He was standing in a circle of light. The darkness formed an impenetrable curtain around him, but he could hear something moving about in its depths. They were moving rapidly because, though he pivoted in the direction of each new sound, he could not keep up with the movement. There was a dull thud behind him and he whirled around to see a girl's body lying at the edge of the light. Her eyes had been gouged out and her ears were missing. At once, bodies began to fly out of the darkness in rapid fire succession, thudding to the ground inside the circle of light. He withdrew his service revolver from its holster and tried to gauge the position of the killer. He could not and in the meantime corpses, continued to pile up around him, until he was surrounded by a wall of mutilated bodies. His hand trembled as he grew frantic. In his anxiety, Mathis fumbled with the gun and dropped it. As he bent down to retrieve the weapon, a body struck him across the back, sending him sprawling. He lay dazed as the corpses piled atop of him. He struggled to extricate himself, but his efforts proved futile and the sheer weight crushed the very life out of him.

Chapter Eleven: Ernie Sees the Light

1

The next three days passed without further murders, but there were a few subtle changes in the town's atmosphere. If one did not know what to look for, these changes would have escaped their attention completely. A feeling of suspicion and caution had settled into the town's character. It could be seen in the way that mothers made certain to meet their children at the school bus each afternoon. It could be heard in the way that fathers lectured sons and daughters about the need to abide by strict curfews. Those who were previously less than stringent in keeping track of their children, suddenly made it a priority to know where they were at all times. People had become less casual in their movements after dark. They went out only when necessary and went about their business as quickly as possible, to return to the security of their locked homes.

Jimmy Simms was especially meticulous in taking precautions about where he went and when he went there. He had seen the television accounts of the two murders and it was not a large leap to make the association between these murders and this doctor monster. He was suffering from indecision. His predicament was this; should he tell anyone about what had happened and if so, who? Actually, he felt certain that it would be madness to tell anyone about his discovery. He was a child, but not so naive as to think that his story would be believed. The most blackly ironic twist would come if his accusation convinced everyone that he was seriously deranged. With his luck, he would end up committed into the doctor's care, which he knew would be less than tender and loving. Even as a child he knew that he could never survive such an outcome. He knew also that he would have to do something for his own protection. He could feel her presence and more ominous yet, he could sense a pervading bleakness descending upon the town. Semelar was becoming like an apple which had been left to stand in the sun; it had begun to rot and it would be maggot infested before anyone suspected that something was amiss. Cynara knew that he had sensed her intrinsic blackness and he reasoned that it was unlikely that she would allow him to live. Yet, what could he do? He had no idea and he needed one soon because his next appointment was scheduled for the day after tomorrow.

He was wrestling with the problem, when the phone rang, startling him out of his worry. His keeper's voice whispered to him, "It's her Jimmy. Can't you feel it.?"

He could feel it. The flesh on his arms had risen into goose bumps. A shiver of panic ran down his spine, like an invisible, icy finger making its way down his backbone. He moved slowly to the door of his small room. His father was sitting at the kitchen table and made no move to answer the phone, which he detested. His mother rushed to pick it up on the third ring. As he watched her, he could see a broad smile spreading across her face. The smile resembled the one that she had been wearing when she had emerged from the doctor's office. That smile told him that his keeper had been correct. He suspected that the witch had called to confirm his next appointment, so he was surprised to see his mother hand the phone to his father. He gave her a sour glance and muttered something. He rose with the effort of a man twice his age, and took the telephone.

Jimmy watched and could hear his father's conversation. Then a thick, inky blackness began to emanate from the ear piece. He watched as it capered and danced in the air. Slowly, it spread across the room, until it formed an opaque curtain from wall to wall. The thick mist obscured his view, but he could hear muffled voices coming through the curtain. A fine white cloud materialized in the centre of the shimmering wall and the witch walked out of it as if it was a doorway. In her world of wonders, perhaps it was precisely that. For all of his fear, Jimmy had to admit that the woman was dazzling. He could understand how she would easily beguile people who could not penetrate that superficial exterior. He could see through this well constructed veil and the sight concealed within filled him with revulsion and horror. She walked out of the mist and into the room, stopping a foot from where he stood.

"Hello, Jimmy," she said amiably. "I just thought I'd stop in to see how my star patient was coming along."

She reached out and stroked his cheek with a feathery touch. He flinched, but did not move away. "I wish that I had time to explore the limits of your ability, but I'm afraid that I do not."

She gave him a sad smile and ruffled his hair, "Unfortunately, you've become a liability and I'm not in a position to take chances."

Without warning, her caress became a vice grip around his throat. He struggled for air and pounded ineffectually at her arms, but found them to have the consistency of steel. He succeeded only in hurting his hands. "Your time is short, you little fucker. I just wanted you to be aware of that."

She released him and he fell to the floor, clutching at his throat, gasping for air. She began to move toward the white mist, but turned to face him, before she could reach the curtain. "Oh yes, before I go, I believe that there is a small matter of revenge to be extracted."

She simply raised her left eyebrow and his head exploded in a burst of white light and pain. His skull felt too small to contain the force building up within its confines. He thought that he was screaming, but could not be certain as his head was filled by a booming roar that resembled the thunder of a waterfall. The pressure continued to swell until he felt a popping in his nostrils. Blood sprayed out of his nose, onto the front of his Spiderman pajamas. He rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away, hoping to escape the pain in his skull. Then his ears followed the way of his nostrils and burst like the pop of a champagne cork, spewing blood in great plumes. He collapsed onto his stomach, waiting resignedly for the pressure to burst his skull. The moment of shattering did not come and the pressure abated, at last disappearing completely. When he opened his eyes, the room had come back to its normal state. The black curtain was gone, as was the witch. He ran his hands over his face and ears and then held them out before him. There was not a trace of blood to be found. He experimentally touched his forehead, as if he could not accept that his skull was still in tact. It had all been an illusion. He nearly cried with relief, but this only lasted for a brief moment and was quickly replaced by a feeling of sinking despair. If the witch was capable of creating such an elaborate illusion, what else could she do? This thought frightened Jimmy more than anything else that had happened. He could feel ice cold fear gnawing at his innards like a week old hunger. He had nowhere to turn. He could only sit and wait for the witch to come and make good her promise.

"You're going to have to lay low, Jimmy and keep your eyes wide open," his mental companion advised. In the kitchen he heard his father saying goodbye. He moved over to the doorway and resumed his spying.

"That was the boy's doctor down to the hospital," he heard his father telling his mother.

"Oh, isn't she a lovely woman? What did she want, Ernie?"

"She wanted to know if I could come down and talk about the boy this afternoon. I said that I'd be in."

"Is there something wrong? I mean with Jimmy?" There was a thread of concern in her voice that made her normally shrill voice sound all the more shrewish.

"She didn't say for sure, just said that she thought it would be good to discuss the boy's problem with each parent separately. Sounded like a nice enough lady though. I'll grant ya that much," he replied.

Jimmy sat back on his bed and put his head in his hands. Why did she want to see his dad? How did he fit into her plan to get rid of him? He didn't know and that ignorance settled like an anchor around his neck. He had known that she would come for him, but he had never anticipated that she would use such misdirection to achieve her ends. He had to get out, had to think about what he would do. He quickly got dressed and went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. He had turned on the light and was preparing to squeeze toothpaste onto his brush, when he first noticed the bruises. They were purplish and ugly, forming a crude fan of fingers on the white skin of his neck. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped in a wordless exclamation of horror, but he did not cry out. Instead, he sat heavily on the side of the claw footed iron tub and wept miserably. The salty, hot tears spilled down his cheeks. The slow rise and fall of his shoulders marked the depth of his anguish. He sat there, a small boy caught in a vice of circumstances over which he had no control. He wept for the bitterness he felt, when he considered his pathetic life, but most of all, he wept because he could see no requiem or defense against this monster that he had stumbled upon. He was finally and totally alone.

"Jimmy, hold on. There is someone coming. Maybe he'll be able to help you," the keeper whispered, in a gentle soothing voice. Jimmy tried to gather himself. He took a tissue from the box on the back of the sink and dried his eyes. Looking into the mirror, he saw a boy staring back at him...one who he could not recognize. On the surface, there appeared a young boy with a tear stained face. Just below the surface, lurking like a premonition, was the spectral image of a much older man with a haggard face and tired, haunted eyes. Jimmy had experienced enough weirdness for one day, so he quickly turned and escaped both the mirror and the house. It never occurred to him that the second face was an older, time worn version of the man he would become.

2

It was as if the entire world were colored blue from horizon to horizon, both above and below. The sky was a cobalt blue and the vast expanse of water, that was the Atlantic Ocean, shone in a deeper, richer shade of the same color. The Air Italy 747 streaked across the sky, moving in a line from southeast to northwest. It had departed from Rome International Airport and was destined for New York. Zved Neghev gazed relentlessly out of the starboard window, to a focal point on the horizon where the water and sky merged into one indistinguishable point. He had spent the past three days making the necessary arrangements for his flight. Securing his leave of absence from the MOSSAD had been surprisingly simple and this had made Neghev vaguely uneasy. Uneasy to the extent that he had spent several hours trying to reason why permission had been granted so quickly. Eventually, he had come to the rather ominous conclusion that they must consider him to be somewhat shop worn. Perhaps his unquestioning, mechanical execution of their will had begun to concern them. It was not uncommon for an operative to function in an efficient and normal manner on the surface, while edging closer to the brink of breakdown inside. The calm, self contained types were the most difficult to gauge and usually the most explosive. He had been entrenched in the battle lines for a long time without relief.

It was not natural to want to remain entrenched there, or so his superiors believed. History had demonstrated that constant exposure to horror and terror could drive even the most stable man over the edge. Neghev had lived in the shadow of horror for over six years without a respite. Could his director have concluded that it was only a matter of time before he cracked? When he had requested a sabbatical, the director had granted it without hesitation. Neghev had even provided him with a motive for his trip to America in the form of an uncle whom he wished to visit. Neghev had last seen this uncle twenty years ago and could not even recall his face, but he had served his purpose. Clearance had been granted and Neghev was free to pursue the Bishop's sanction.

"Excuse me sir, would you care for a cocktail?" came a voice from beside him. A pretty Italian flight attendant had materialized soundlessly and stood beside him, startling him for an instant. All flight attendants seemed to possess the uncanny ability to appear as if out of thin air. Neghev suspected that they may have been trained in espionage tactics and not flight service school. He declined and she offered him the obligatory smile then moved on. He resumed his scrutiny of the Atlantic. It resembled a huge glowing sapphire and it occurred to him how the vast body of water mirrored humanity. It appeared calm and beautiful, but was capable of a limitless amount of savagery and brutality. Neghev need only look into himself to see the aptness of this analogy.

Neghev had never been to the United States. His entire universe had been rooted in the desert sands of Israel. He had frequently read books and seen movies and television programs about America, but they had only served to make the country seem all the more alien and inaccessible. He knew that America stood as a beacon of prosperity and hope for a good portion of the world, but its concerns and priorities were so different from the ones in his world that he found it difficult to visualize ever living there. When compared to the grim realities of his world, America was a veritable paradise. The two countries were separated by a gap that could not be measured in mere miles, but in ways of thought and perspective. Still the idea of leaving Israel had once been inconceivable to Neghev. His passion to see it grow and prosper had consumed his entire being. Now, however, that Israel was gone. It had died in a hail of glass and mortar, along with his wife and daughter. What remained was only a pale facsimile of his country. It was as if by dying, Galina and Delia had taken with them all of the nation's color and vitality. What remained was black and white and sterile. Neghev's Israel was gone and the watered down version in which he lived, only caused him further pain.

Neghev likened this to the haunting that a widow must feel living in the house where she had shared her life with her now dead husband. Every room, every corner held some reminder of the man she had lost. At times, it felt as if he might still be there and at any moment, he would step out of the walls and back into her life. These reminders did nothing to alleviate the nagging grief. Instead they constantly tore open the old wounds of loss. Israel had become this way for Neghev. Everywhere he looked, he could see Galina and Delia and the family that they could have become. When he saw these things, he was stricken by a wave of guilt and grief so strong that it very nearly robbed him of his will to live. He closed his eyes and tried to picture their faces. Much to his consternation and dismay, he found that he could not. His mind would bring forth specific features, Galina's eyes or Delia's hair, but it could not integrate them into an entire face. Eventually, were it not for his pictures, he would lose even these features and he would be left with nothing but the pain and the incessant longing.

An idea had been brewing on some mental back burner for the past three days. This was his first chance to really consider it. Israel, his Israel, was dead; was there any reason to go back? He couldn't think of a single valid reason. So why not stay in America? He could try to build a new life for himself; one in which killing was not a prerequisite for survival. Maybe this ocean would be beyond the reach of the accusing eyes that plagued his nightmares. He could feel the soft stirring of hope somewhere within himself. It had been years since he had felt hopeful about anything. Fabrizzi had provided him with about sixty thousand American dollars, which would be a more than sufficient amount upon which to build his new life. Instead of going to Semelar, he would go to Miami or Los Angeles or perhaps even some smaller community. Yes, this might be better; a small town where he could submerge himself in the waters of anonymity and begin the job of reanimating himself.

Then he smiled a self deprecating grin. The woman in the next seat gave him a puzzled glance. He smiled at her and she quickly looked away. He had surprised himself with this childish dream of simply running away. For a man such as Neghev, the future was set and the boundaries of his path were irreversible and unalterable. It was blatant stupidity to think that the MOSSAD would allow him to go AWOL. He knew too much to be allowed to live an unmonitored life. They would hunt him down and take him back and if he refused to go, they would liquidate him. The one essential truth of his business was that dead men tell no tales.

Even if the MOSSAD were to allow him to leave, he had made a commitment to Fabrizzi, promising to perform a service and he was bound by that commitment. He had accepted his pieces of silver and now nothing remained but the dirty work or the wet work as it was called in the business. Something had been set in motion and he was powerless to stop it. It was more than just scruples or ethics that assured his fulfillment of the contract, it was the eyes. He could still see the vivid blue eyes of the boy from his nightmare and the amber flecked eyes of the witch taunting him. He turned his gaze to the distant horizon. There appeared to be a corona of golden light glowing there. In the midst of this glow, he thought that he could see two brown eyes. They seemed to be imploring him to come forward. In their depths he could see apprehension and misery. He felt himself being drawn towards them. A presentiment told him that these were the eyes of someone in desperate need of assistance. The ghosts of his past whispered to him, telling him that he could not fail to heed their call.

3

Half a world away, Ernie Simms was preparing for his visit to his son's doctor. When it came to his appearance, Simms was never a fastidious man, but today he had taken great pains to insure that his hair was properly combed and his attire was presentable. He had abandoned his usual uniform of green work pants and a blue denim shirt for a gray sports jacket and navy blue slacks. He was not certain why he felt the desire to dress up. He just did as if it were somehow appropriate. He had felt quite happy ever since he had spoken with the doctor earlier this morning. Her voice had a lilting quality that was most agreeable, so unlike his wife's, which was so often reproachful or nagging. He was rather anxious to see the owner of that voice, face to face. He said goodbye to his wife and nodded to the boy, then walked out into the bright September sunshine.

Ernie moved across the asphalt parking lot, over to his battered Buick Regal. The Buick was a microcosm of his life...battered and rusted, but still functional. He moved past the writer's door and could hear the click click of his typewriter, beating out its black and white view of whatever world he was creating. At times, he wished that he could take refuge in some story where the world was not confined to a bottle, a lawn chair, and a pile of comic books. He fumbled for his keys and got behind the wheel. He pulled onto the road, heading across the lowlands towards the hospital. He had been there on one previous occasion to see the last doctor, Elderberg his name had been. He had vowed never to return again. He had asked questions of Ernie, some of which he couldn't answer. Ernie had gotten the distinct impression that Elderberg was implying that he, Ernie, was somehow responsible for the boy's problems. The boy had always struck him as odd...always wanting to be off by himself and never wanting to play with the other kids was just plain strange. Yet even before he had begun to exhibit signs of this strangeness, Ernie had been unable to call the boy his son. Though he never would have admitted it to another soul, he knew that he had never wanted a child at all. It would have stunned Ernie to discover that everyone who knew him had realized this long before he did. Irrespective of this, Ernie would shoulder no blame for the boy's withdrawn state.

He moved out of the residential area and into the wooded outskirts. The afternoon sun slanted through the trees, creating alternating zones of light and shadow along the roadway. The hospital facility came up on his left and he turned into the visitors' parking lot. He parked in the nearest spot available and walked to the main entrance. As he did, the wind ruffled his brownish silver hair. When he stepped into the entrance, he smoothed down his hair with the palms of his hands.

As soon as he entered the psychiatric facility, he was reacquainted with why he so disliked being here. Several patients were milling about aimlessly, in various states of disconnection. An older woman in a loose hospital gown sat on a hospital bench and rocked herself while humming tunelessly. She was hugging herself fiercely. Ernie could see that her knuckles were white with the pressure that her hands exerted upon her shoulders. He walked down the carpeted corridor to the administration area, where he knew the doctor's office was located. He peered through a glass porthole, looking into the patient's common area. A solitary man was sitting in one of the plush chairs. For a brief moment, Ernie was certain that the gaunt, sallow man must be dead. His blank eyes stared off into space. The only indication of life that the man displayed was the slight rise and fall of the man's bowed shoulders. Ernie stood there, watching the statue of a man, until a voice behind him startled him out of his scrutiny, "Is there something in particular that you're looking for, sir?"

Ernie turned to see a stern faced female nurse watching him with an expression which blended harried impatience with mild exasperation. "I have an appointment with the new doctor... er,"

Somehow the name had slipped his mind. "That would be Dr. Simonovic. Her office is located at the end of this corridor."

Ernie merely nodded his head and walked away from the woman who he had decided was a major bitch. He strode to the door at the end of the hall. A small brass name plate was affixed to the black wooden door. It read:

Dr. Cynara Simonovic

Director of Psychiatry

Ernie glanced back along the corridor and saw that the nurse was still watching him, with hands on hips, as if she expected him to try and pilfer the reception lounge ashtrays. He gave her a sour glance, opened the door and stepped into the office. The receptionist looked up from her IBM word processor as he entered and with a smile, said, "May I help you, sir?"

For the second time, he gave his reason for being here. She buzzed the doctor and told her of his arrival. The intercom issued a muffled reply and the receptionist gestured him forward, into the main office. At the door, he paused to wipe his sweaty palms on the leg of his slacks. He had felt unaccountably anxious ever since he had agreed to this meeting. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and went inside.

The interior of the room had changed significantly since the time of his last visit. Where before, the interior had been dark and brooding, the office was now bright and colorful. The furniture, which was completely new, was a combination of plush, pastel sofas and light wooden desks and bookcases. There were several small end tables throughout the room. Upon each of these, there was a different style of crystal lamp. This must have cost the hospital a fortune, Ernie mused.

The most noticeable and to Ernie's mind, the most agreeable change was the occupant. For a moment, Ernie's natural chauvinism asserted itself and he thought that the woman behind the desk must be a secretary. Upon seeing him, she took off her glasses, set them aside, and came around the desk to greet him. Extending a hand, with long, elegant fingers, she said, "Hello Mr. Simms. I am Doctor Simonovic. Thank you for coming."

"No trouble," he murmured, trying to adjust to the beauty of the woman before him. Ernie was only five feet, seven inches tall and the doctor was at least two inches taller. She wore a conservative female version of the banker's pinstripe suit. The stodginess of the navy cut did nothing to conceal the exquisite body beneath. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders in a glorious mass of curls, but it was her eyes that drew and held Ernie's gaze. They were like large brown and amber pools of liquid that captured light and reflected it back into the world in even greater radiance.

He shook her hand and she gestured towards a pale green leather wing back and then went back to her own seat. As she sat, she tossed her black mane in a gesture that made Ernie's pulse flutter. She stared directly into his eyes with a frank, unblinking, speculative gaze that was so unlike Dr. Elderberg, who seemed to avoid eye contact whenever possible. "Mr. Simms, I've asked you to come here this afternoon because I wish to discuss your son. Quite frankly, I'm concerned about him. He seems to take great pains to disassociate himself from the rest of the world. After reading Dr. Elderberg's reports, I have discovered that he was unable to find a concrete explanation for the boy's behavior. Perhaps you would care to share any insight you might have about your son, Mr. Simms."

This was precisely the question that had angered Ernie on his previous visit. How was he supposed to guess what was wrong with the boy? He was not a doctor. Staring into those beautiful eyes, however, he found that the question was not nearly as irksome; in fact, he found it quite reasonable. He had never speculated on the cause of his son's behavior before and now he had to grope for a reply.

"I really don't know what's wrong with the boy, or if anything is wrong with him at all," he murmured uncomfortably. To his own ears, the quality of his voice seemed altered, as if it were coming from somewhere other than inside of him. The room was much too warm and Ernie could feel a rivulet of perspiration streaming from his hairline, down his neck and into his shirt.

Dr. Simonovic continued to regard him for a moment and then dropped her eyes to a file. She scanned the text quickly, stopping when she had apparently found what she had been looking for. She looked up at him and he had the distinct impression that her assessing eyes were able to penetrate into the innermost chambers of his mind. He squirmed under that scrutiny. "Would it be unfair to say that you occasionally drink, Mr. Simms?"

Ernie flushed, surprised by the degree of shame that he felt. "Yes I...I have a drink every now and then."

His initial shame gave way to a mounting anger which was not directed at the doctor. No, his anger was directed at the traitorous bastards that had mentioned his drinking in the first place. They had no right, none at all. After all, didn't he provide for both of them? Where would they be without him? After all that he had done for them, they still begrudged him of a drink from time to time. Oh, but he would find out which was responsible for this humiliation and when he did, he would show them the error of their ways-painfully, if need be. Cynara saw the extent of his discomfort and smiled to herself. He was reacting precisely as she had expected he would. She assumed a sympathetic tone. "It is not my intention to cause you any embarrassment. I'm only trying to formulate a more exact picture of the situation. You must understand I can be of little help to the boy if I am unaware of the things that may affect the way he feels and thinks."

He could say nothing; only nod his head to indicate his understanding. He looked down at his hands; they were trembling and he clasped them together, hoping that she would not notice how profoundly her question had affected him. After a time, he felt the throbbing in his temple subside somewhat and he raised his head. She spoke to him, with a soft note of tenderness in her voice. "I'm not here to judge you, Mr. Simms, nor am I going to moralize or lecture you. I have seen a great deal of the world and I fully understand its pressures. I have seen the way that they can reshape a person, belittle them. At times, it is necessary to seek help and help can come in many forms. Who am I to pass judgment on the manner in which one finds comfort? I cannot see the world through your eyes or experience the pressures that you must endure."

Simms regarded Cynara suspiciously, at first thinking that she was being slyly sardonic. He saw that she was not. She understood the source of his pain, if not his very nature. She was not only the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen, but also the most compassionate. She did not sneer at him and he felt her sympathy to be genuine. He looked directly into her eyes. They were bewitching, shimmering there like precious gem stones. He had never been understood, never taken seriously by anyone. He was a borderline alcoholic and a serious contender for the town joke; a man clinging tenaciously to what little dignity he had left. Yet there, in the depths of those amber orbs, he could see a different reflection. Looking back at him was the man that he could have become. This man was strong and erect, unmarked by the ravages of too many squandered years. Best of all, his face did not sport the signs of his ongoing battle with the bottle. This was an Ernie Simms who had a grip on the bottle and not the other way around.

Ernie could feel his heart break when he pictured his own sorry image next to this man from some parallel world. The image dissipated, as if it had been a trick of light in a water pool.

When the image had cleared completely, it was replaced by a wavering wall of white light. He could hear the doctor speaking to him, but the specific words were both muffled and distorted. He was further astounded by the fact that he was giving her answers to her questions, even though he seemed not to hear them. He felt as though his mind had become unhinged and was going off on two divergent tangents. Ernie felt himself floating up and away from his body, until he hovered parallel to the ground. He was a relatively simple man and so the concept of astral displacement was beyond him, but he did understand that he was in the middle of some pretty weird shit. He hovered above the doctor and she watched him as if his state of suspension were an everyday occurrence. Suddenly, he plummeted downward and as he did, a pool of golden light spread out beneath him. He fell into the centre and sank quickly, but did not feel apprehensive about drowning because despite being submerged in liquid, he could still breathe normally. He continued to descend until all thought slipped away.

His next coherent thought was to wonder why he was not soaking wet. He lay on his back, staring up into the darkness. He attempted to sit up and was unable to at first, but eventually succeeded in getting to his feet. He was now standing on a solid rock floor, in a circle of bright light. The light was extremely harsh, causing him to squint. When his eyes finally adjusted to the glare, he saw Cynara lounging on a velvet recliner. She had abandoned her conservative attire, in favor of something more enticing; sheer black nylons and a black satin slip that barely reached mid thigh. Her two nipples were clearly outlined against the thin material. She was indeed the most desirable woman that Simms had ever laid eyes upon.

"Come and sit here," she said, gesturing towards the foot of the recliner. Her voice carried a tone of absolute authority and he did so without hesitation.

"Do you know where you are, Mr. Simms?"

"No," he replied, looking about him with a slightly bewildered expression upon his face. He focused upon her, but found her beauty to be not only alluring, but tremendously distracting.

"Then let me enlighten you. You are in the depths of your own mind. I've taken you here to free yourself of the distractions of the outside world. This is a place where few people go; not because it is inaccessible, but because they are afraid of what they will find here." She looked about slowly and he followed her gaze. "In this chamber of the soul, the reality of the world is recorded. Only here, may you confront your true self, stripped of all of the embellishments and prejudices. The way you see yourself in this chamber is the way that you truly are. I have taken you here to help clarify things for you. This place will help you decide how best to solve the problem of the boy. Do you understand Ernie?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"Look at me, Ernie," she commanded.

He did. She peered down over the high ridges of her cheek bones, directly into his eyes. She cast an imposing figure. Her stature reminded Simms of that of a queen, or more appropriate still, a goddess. He felt hot and thirsty. He ran his tongue over his lips to find that they were cracked and painfully swollen. He wished that he could have a drink, just one little drink. Maybe then he could calm his frayed nerves and begin to think more clearly.

"So your craving is gnawing at you, Mr. Simms," Cynara smiled. Simms flinched and averted his eyes. "There are no secrets here. If it is a drink that you desire, then it is a drink that you shall have." She extended her right hand and plunged it into the darkness. The arms did not gradually fade out of sight as Ernie had expected that it would. It was visible up to the elbow, where it disappeared abruptly as if she had plunged it into a pool of dirty oil. Drawing back from the inky blackness, Cynara had conjured up a silver goblet. Simms literally licked his lips at the prospect of having a drink. He couldn't remember the craving ever being this strong. She held the goblet out to him and he took it with both hands. He held it gingerly, eyes gleaming in reverence, as if it held liquid gold. Then he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. To Simms, it was ambrosia, its liquid fire flooding his mouth and caressing his insides all the way down into the pit of his stomach. Pleasant warmth suffused the chambers of his wasted body. He wanted to ask her what it was, but his tongue seemed thick and swollen. It didn't matter, for now he felt serene and tranquil. The liquid gold had slaked his thirst and assuaged some of his abject shame.

"I trust that you feel somewhat better?" Cynara inquired. Ernie merely nodded.

"Very well, then we may begin." She waved her hand in a broad sweeping gesture and a thin mist began to form on the very face of the darkness.

"I'm going to introduce you to some of the realities of your world, Mr. Simms. I'm going to hold the essential truths of your life up before you, naked and unadulterated." She gesticulated and a face took shape in the heart of the mist. He barely recognized it to be the face of his son. Though the general structure was the same, the eyes had become pinched and sly. He had always remembered the boy to be wide eyed and ingenuous, although somewhat odd. This face, dancing on the currents of the mist, appeared cunning and deceitful. It was not difficult to picture such a face mocking him or scoffing at him behind his back. He could not remember ever catching the boy doing this, but someone so conniving could easily conceal his derision.

"This is your son, Mr. Simms. Not the innocent exterior that you and the rest of the world see, but the boy as he really is," Cynara declared. She raised her hand with the palm extended forward toward the screen, and made a gesture similar to the one a child would make when cleaning off a blackboard with a brush. The image of his son dissipated in a swirl of mist, to be replaced by a portrait of his wife. His wife had never been a pretty woman, but she was much more attractive than the crone who materialized before him. Her face was wrinkled and doughy, giving her a manipulative and scornful expression. There was something basically wrong with these two images, but Ernie could not grasp what these faults might be. Something seemed to be crowding his thoughts, streamlining them towards one specific perspective or conclusion. "This is the woman that you married. Do you recognize her, Mr. Simms?"

Had there been an indication of contempt in Cynara's voice? He thought that there had been, but he could not be sure. The liquor kept flowing through his body as if his blood stream had taken it and made it its own. "And finally, this is you, Mr. Simms. More specifically, this is the way that you are perceived by the rest of the world."

The image elicited a groan that grew from the pit of Ernie's stomach. The face before him was haggard and dull eyed. The shoulders were stooped and the hair was a feathery white imitation of its former self. On his nose and cheeks, there was a network of prominent snapped, red veins. He resembled a derelict; a husk of a man who was more dead than alive. Hot tears of self pity and remorse sprang to his eyes and coursed down his face.

"Not a particularly affable picture, is it Mr. Simms?" she asked softly. "Still, it is reality."

He wanted to tell her that this was not the way that it had to be, but watching the screen and seeing the beleaguered face staring back at him, Ernie understood that there could be no return. Cynara rose and walked slowly to the wall of truth. She stood silently for a moment, as if contemplating some important point. Ernie said nothing; just stared after her, feeling both dejected and empty. When she spoke, her voice was ripe with a derision that stung him like acid. "I find it difficult to feel any sympathy for a man who would let himself to degenerate into this woeful state," Cynara said, as she gestured towards the screen. "Unless he was driven to it by something else...or someone else."

At this notion, something flickered in Ernie's eyes. It was as if some internal light switch had been flipped on, illuminating some important truth that had been hidden in the darkness. Surely, he could not have allowed himself to decay of his own volition. Cynara saw this flicker and knew that she was close to triumph. She need only to apply the final touches, push the correct buttons "Perhaps, if a man was saddled with a problematic son and a badgering, ungrateful wife, he could be driven into the arms of the bottle. It's a sad commentary on life when a man of your caliber could be driven to such a state, and by his very own loved ones."

She shook her head sadly. Ernie could feel his despair giving way to a towering, all-consuming rage. Of course she was right...he had been driven to this state...driven by a wife, who had never been supportive and a troublesome son, who he had never wanted in the first place. Now he sat before this exotic creature, feeling both humiliation and hatred. She had crossed over to where he sat and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort his misery. The scent of her was exotic and tantalizing. Her touch was feathery and arousing. "Earnest, I believe that you have been victimized. You have been manipulated and taken advantage of by the people who you thought loved you. The boy has been brought to me for help, but I think that it is you who deserves it more."

Her silky hand caressed his face, softly, lovingly, and he could feel his internal temperature rise. "I can provide you with a second chance Mr. Simms. Very few people in this world are afforded the opportunity to truly redeem themselves. You can erase that image and become the man that you first saw in the depths of my eyes. Would you want that second chance, Mr. Simms?"

"Yes!" he begged, despising the desperate tone in his voice, but being unable to remove it. His tears of despair had turned to tears of gratitude.

"Then a second chance you shall have," she declared magnanimously. "All things come with a price. To be reborn, you must demonstrate your worthiness. Are you willing to do this, or do you prefer to remain as you are? When you have outlived your usefulness, do you think that your wife and son will want you?" she challenged.

He did not reply. The question had been a rhetorical one and the answer had been written on their hateful faces. "In return for a second chance at life, I want you to teach your family respect. I want you to impress upon them, forcibly if necessary, the error of their ways. If you cannot make your own family see you in a different light, then how do you expect the rest of the world to look at you with any degree of seriousness?"

Ernie grasped the essential truth of this. They were the ones responsible for his demise, with their constant demands for which they had given nothing in return. He understood this now. She had shown him. She had promised him redemption and he would do whatever was required to insure that he got it. He would teach them respect and they would learn or suffer the consequences. He reached for his goblet and was surprised to find it replenished. He drained the cup, feeling the fire permeate his entire body. His eyes blazed at the prospect of his rebirth. Cynara stepped away from the lounger, standing with her hands upon her hips and her legs spread slightly apart. "Do you not wonder why I am dressed this way? This is the way in which you see me or more precisely this is the way that I appear in your world. Mr. Simms, a man, such as the one that you would become, would not only be worthy of redemption, but also be worthy of me."

She tossed her mane and posed seductively. Ernie's eyes popped wide at her sheer beauty and animal allure. Then his eyelids began to feel heavy and he carried this final picture of her down into oblivion.

After an interminable period, Ernie came back to himself. He was sitting in the same wing back chair that he had been in before floating off into the void. Dr. Simonovic was speaking to him in her business like voice, looking exactly as she had when he first entered the office. At some point she must have put on her reading glasses, but otherwise she was unchanged. He felt rather bleary, as if he were coming off of a colossal piss up. He leaned slightly forward, to better hear what the doctor was saying. Something fell off of his lap and hit the carpeted floor with a muffled crack. Ernie looked down to see a silver goblet lying at his feet.

His eyes snapped back to the Doctor, who favored him with a knowing, conspiratorial smile, "Do we understand each other, Mr. Simms."

He nodded and she added, "Then our business here is done for the time being."

He rose and shuffled towards the door. He moved like a man in the midst of a dream world; slowly, mechanically. Cynara laid a hand upon his shoulder. He jumped as he had not even heard her come out from behind her desk. She turned him about and pressed a paper bag into his hands. He could tell by its all too familiar shape that it was a bottle. He opened the plain brown bag to see that it held a bottle of Chivas Regal. He looked at her, questioningly and she said, "Every man finds his courage where he can."

He nodded and then averted his eyes, looking instead at the bottle and the precious liquid contained therein. He had the sudden impulse to push it back into her hands and walk away, but then the image of his true self came back to him and he slipped the bottle into his coat pocket. He opened the door and went out to redeem himself.

Cynara closed the door and returned to her desk. It had been a relatively simple matter to convince Simms that he was not responsible for his pathetic condition. It was easy because it was what he wanted to hear. She had told him that he was within the chamber of truths. That had been only a partial lie. He had been in the chamber of 'his' truths. She removed her glasses and replaced them in their case. Now she would wait for her wind up toy to do its trick. If he succeeded, then the problem of the boy would be effectively resolved.

Chapter Twelve: News of the World Pt 1

Melissa Danford sat before her Smith Corona portable typewriter, with her chin propped in her palms. Around her, the Semelar Television News Room was alive with a flurry of activity. The constant movement of information and people through the channel 12 newsroom made it difficult to concentrate, but Melissa was so absorbed in thought that she was oblivious to the goings on around her. The thing that was preoccupying her mind, and had done so for the past three days, was the crucifixion murder case. The crucifixion murder case had been a catch name that Melissa had coined to use on her television news broadcast.

Danford was a twenty eight year old Journalism graduate, who her friends referred to as the _mini dynamo_ ; mini because she was five foot, two inches tall and one hundred and seven pounds, a dynamo because she had an inexhaustible supply of energy and a tremendous determination to succeed. She was not beautiful, when compared to such women as Cynara Simonovic or Elizabeth Simpson, but she was quite pretty. Her strongest feature was her emerald green eyes, which drew the attention of whoever looked into them. Her hair was a mass of ash blond curls that fell to a point just beyond her shoulder blades. Her appearance, combined with natural enthusiasm, gave her a foot up on most of her colleagues. Her strongest mental attribute was her driving ambition to succeed, to reach the pinnacle of the television news world. At the pinnacle of a long ascent there waited the coveted position of first female anchor with a major network.

Born in San Diego, Melissa was the only child of a working class family. She was her father's true joy and he, a construction worker, had slaved incessantly to pay her way through the UCLA journalism program. She had promised him that she would repay his sacrifice by becoming the State's most successful journalist. He had died of cancer four years ago, and she still grieved his death. She carried that promise like a debt she felt obligated to repay. After three years of non stop searching, she had finally landed a position with the NBC affiliate here in Semelar. She had spent her first two years toiling in the news department, waiting to be noticed. Her natural drive had made it inevitable that her day of recognition would come and it had. A year ago, she was been offered the position of field reporter and she virtually leapt at the chance.

She aggressively pursued what there was to be pursued here, but the pickings were meager. It was difficult to gain national recognition reporting misappropriations of funds for the town paving projects, or trash accumulations in the lowlands. Inside, she grew increasingly frustrated over what she considered to be her stagnant position. Despite how mundane most of these stories turned out to be...she nonetheless attacked them with as much zeal as she could. Now, one year later, she was the station's number one field reporter, in addition to being the host of a local talk show. However, she despaired ever finding her coveted national recognition...until now.

Melissa pondered the possibilities and while she felt sorry for the victims and their families, she was personally ecstatic about the whole affair. If she could infuse the grim events with the right amount of drama, this story had the makings of a national spell binder. With a forum in which to display her talent and charm, Melissa was confident that her days of languishing in the Semelar news room would be over. This series of murders had all of the elements required to catch national interest. Two unbelievably brutal murders that may possibly involve Satanism were sure to be prime time material. The local station chief, Sid Rothforn, who Melissa knew was obsessed with bedding her, had selected her to do the groundwork and television presentation on the story. She had been given a free hand to investigate the murders along whatever avenues she thought were best. It would be crucial to select the right approach to the story, because another chance might not come along soon, if ever.

Many of her colleagues found her attitude towards death and catastrophe to be mercenary, self serving and obdurate, but Melissa believed that, in this life, you played the cards fate dealt you and made the most of them. As long as she did a thorough job of reporting the story, why should her motivations matter? She picked up a mechanical pencil and began scribbling an outline of her approach to the whole story. On the nightly news, she was limited to actually report what she could on the developments in the case. However, her daily Semelar at Twelve Program provided her with a lot more latitude. Through this program she could actually do some investigative reporting and though this was hoping for a lot, possibly have a hand in solving the murders.

In Melissa's mind, the killer was just another demented psycho who would keep killing until he was either caught or killed himself. The world was full of people who were borderline lunatics. Occasionally, they blew a fuse and became full fledged killers. One tool that was often useful in such cases was a projected psychological profile of the potential killer. Her present idea revolved around a show in which she and a psychiatrist constructed such a profile. The idea had some merit and she decided to pursue it further. She opened her desk drawer and took out the telephone directory to find the Semelar hospital listing. The chief psychiatrist on staff was Doctor Elderberg. She dialed the number and waited, tapping her pencil impatiently. This was typical of the way Melissa functioned...once an idea germinated in her mind; she became consumed by it and would not rest until she saw it come to fruition. On the fifth ring, the hospital's central receptionist answered, "Good afternoon, Semelar County Hospital. May I help you?"

"Yes, I would like to speak to Dr. Elderberg, please. This is Melissa Danford speaking," Melissa announced.

"I'm sorry Ms. Danford, but doctor Elderberg is no longer on staff." the receptionist replied, matching Melissa's professional tone.

"Oh." Melissa murmured, taken aback momentarily. "Who is the present director of the Psychiatric Department?"

"That would be Doctor Cynara Simonovic."

"May I speak to her please?"

"Just one moment, Ms. Danford. I'll see if she is available." There was a click as the receptionist put her on hold. She felt a degree of disappointment over this development. She had known Dr. Elderberg for two years and had found him to be quite accommodating. This Simonovic was an unknown factor. Most people would have been surprised to find that Melissa preferred to deal with men. Experience had taught her that, with the right amount of innuendo and deference, a woman could achieve anything when dealing with a man. She might have been interested to know that this was a philosophy that she and Cynara Simonovic shared.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Danford, this is Dr. Simonovic speaking. How may I help you?" The voice on the other end of the line was extremely pleasant. The words seemed to flow from the receiver in a melodious stream.

"Dr. Simonovic, I am a reporter and a newscaster with the channel 12 NBC affiliate, here in Semelar."

"Ah yes," the doctor responded and Melissa thought that she could detect a touch of caution thread through the other woman's voice.

"Doctor, I am also the host of a daily community service show. I am organizing a program on the recent murders that have taken place here in Semelar. Are you familiar with them?"

"I have a passing familiarity, yes," The doctor replied neutrally.

"Specifically, are you familiar with the brutal nature of the two killings?"

"I know only what the papers have reported."

"There is speculation that the killings may be related to some sort of satanic ritual. I would like to present to the public a professional's analysis of the sort of person who would be capable of such an act. As the expert in residence, I thought that you would be a natural. I was hoping that you would be able to give us an hour of your time and appear on my show."

"Actually, Ms. Danford, I've just assumed the position here and I have a great deal of organizational work to do. I'm..."

"Dr. Simonovic," Melissa interrupted, "Don't you think that it would be beneficial to provide the public with a profile of a potential killer, perhaps give them an edge on the kind of person they may be dealing with? Could your profile not possibly alert them to the dangers that they are faced with? Is an hour too much to ask for providing a vital community service?" Melissa concluded, hoping that persuasion and the subtle intimation of selfishness would do the trick. She held her breath, awaiting the Doctor's response. There was a long pause and then, "When the details have been finalized, call my office and give a specific time when my presence is required."

"Thank you Doctor. I appreciate your cooperation. It is entirely possible that your profile may just save a life," Melissa declared triumphantly.

"That would certainly be very gratifying. Is there anything else, Ms. Danford?" Cynara responded. Melissa found the Doctor's tone to be rather odd. Something about the way in which she had used the term gratifying seemed to carry extremely sarcastic overtones, as if she were mocking the whole idea.

"No. I truly thank you for your help and I'll be in touch, Doctor."

"Goodbye, Ms. Danford," Cynara replied and hung up.

Melissa continued to hold the receiver to her ear and stare into the distance. There was something off centre about this Simonovic woman, but Melissa could not put her finger on exactly what that something was. In the course of their brief conversation, Melissa had the distinct impression that the Doctor's words had several layers of meaning. She was anxious to meet this woman face to face. She replaced the receiver in the cradle and a smile spread over her face. Despite the woman's apparent reserve, Melissa had succeeded in manipulating her into helping with her story. That was all that was really important. She had set the machine in motion and she would see it through, just as she always had. Melissa went in search of the station manager to get his approval for the program. In this way, deals with the devil are forged.

Chapter Thirteen: David and Elizabeth

1

While Ernie Simms was being shown his true self and Melissa Danford was contemplating her possible future, David Stillman was laboring over his word processor, trying to focus his mind on a fantasy world and keep it out of the real one. He could feel the almost irresistible urge to turn his mind to Liz and their meeting of three days before, as if invisible fingers were beckoning his mind's eye in that direction. In the past, before he had returned to Semelar, David had never found it difficult to concentrate on his writing. ' _There really wasn't much else to think about, was there?_ ' he thought to himself. This was undeniably true. Either by fact or by choice, he had found himself isolated from the rest of the world. He had eschewed social contact in favor of his writing...choosing to live in worlds of his own creation. But no more, he promised himself. His reunion with Liz would change that, regardless of what happened with their situation. Still, it pained him that she had not yet called. Yesterday and the previous day, he had expected the telephone to ring. It had not, and he had awoken this morning with the realization that their relationship was irreparably damaged.

His traitorous mind had ignored his best intentions and kept trying to replay that afternoon encounter. He was engaged in a running battle to keep the thought at bay. At the moment he was winning, but barely. The distractions of the past few days had slowed his novel's progress, but he tried doggedly to forge ahead. He had finalized his general outline and was not surprised to find that the story was running parallel to the path he intended to carve for himself. He had been in love with writing ever since having discovered it as a teenager. It had provided him with a sanctuary when the world threatened his fragile grip on sanity. He could create a fanciful journey into a fairy tale world, where the base elements of life had no place. The actual creative process was still a mystery to David. It was true that he had written portions of himself into each of his novels. He had infused into each either the man that he was or the one that he wanted to be.

Every writer has a different style and his or her own source of inspiration. David occasionally had the feeling of omnipotence. He created characters and gave them personality and life. He could move those lives in whatever direction that he saw fit, doing to them what he wished. Stillman had come to understand that his relationship with his characters was extremely complex. He grew to like some and despise others, in spite of his intentions to remain neutral. The way he viewed each character influenced how he charted their fictitious futures. Gardens of Thunder would be the culmination of the first phase of his career. His other stories had contained small portions of himself, whereas this novel would hold the entire person. When he had first conceived the idea, the story was meant to be an exploration of a man's journey home...a sort of bittersweet trip down memory lane. Unlike his first four novels, Stillman had begun writing the novel with no clear idea about how it would unfold. He wanted to register his impressions of Semelar before he decided on the direction of the story. This had been prior to his meeting with Elizabeth. Now all of the variables had resolved themselves into a solid story line. The main character would come home to explore his past. That much was still usable, but this exploration would open his eyes to a few essential truths. He would come to see how he had squandered the first third of his life on misplaced priorities and a poor notion of what success and happiness entailed. The remainder of the novel would deal with how his attempts to reconcile himself with that failure and his efforts to create a new life from the shambles of the old.

Stillman felt like a man standing amongst the smoky ruins of a house which he had inadvertently burned down. Standing there and seeing the detritus of his past, he was confronted with the choice of rebuilding his life in Semelar or moving on and rebuilding a new home and life elsewhere. He could remember an English Prof from his sophomore year telling the class, most of whom were barely awake, if you didn't make your own choices, the world would be more than happy to make them for you. David had grasped the fundamental truth of this statement and realized that if he didn't crawl out of his own self pity grave, the world would be quite pleased to bury him. He understood how he had come back to Semelar, not to write a novel, but to see Elizabeth Simpson and judge her reaction to his success. What had he seen? She had been happy for him, in the detached sort of way that people are happy for those whose successes have no bearing on their own lives. That had been the extent of it.

He was amazed by just how stupid he could be at times. In his life, he had made some colossal blunders, but thinking that Liz would be overjoyed to see him was indubitably the most fatuous notion that he had ever had. He was still glad that he had gone to see her, though, because he could be consoled by the fact that he had left a strong woman and had come back to find a woman who was galvanized in the fires. She had survived the damage that he and the others had inflicted. He was grateful for that much.

The meeting had slammed the door shut on his past. There was no going back and he knew that this revelation would eventually force him to go forward. Elizabeth Simpson was part of a life that he had freely, though stupidly, given up and nothing could be gained by dwelling upon that loss. This was to be the last of his self pity novels. From this one onward, Stillman would move to explore new horizons and not kick at the corpse of the long dead past. He would return to LA and give life a genuine try. He was contemplating leaving and completing this novel there, when a shadow fell across his face. He looked up at the window, but there was nothing to be seen but sunshine. A moment later, a knock came at his door.

2

Before he even opened the door, something told him that it was going to be Elizabeth. She was standing on his broken down doorstep, smiling uncertainly...her flawless beauty totally incongruent with the Lowlands.

"Hello," she said. The word came out sounding rather tentative and shy. This surprised David as he had never known Liz to be anything less than completely self confident. "Did I come at a bad time?"

"No, no of course not. Please come in," Stillman said hastily. She stepped into the room and he motioned her towards the room's single chair. As she moved towards it, David marveled at her beauty. She wore a figure flattering black dress and a green blazer that was fitted around her tiny waist and then flared out over her full hips. He could feel the old flames of desire and passion rekindling within him. She sat and gracefully crossed her long legs. She then looked around his room and he noticed a shimmer of revulsion cross her face.

"I'm sorry, I know it isn't particularly nice," he said, feeling the need to apologize. "I wanted to find a place that would set the mood for the novel that I'm writing."

She smiled, but said nothing. The moment drew itself out; her sitting there and him watching her, admiring her. "I came; I not sure why or if I should have, but I did anyway. I had every intention of staying away, of making a clean break from the past, but knowing that you were here... "She left the thought hanging between them.

"I understand perfectly," he offered. Just minutes before, he had been prepared to walk away from her, but was amazed to find how quickly his conviction evaporated as he stood looking at her.

"I've spent the last three days trying to decide how I feel about your sudden appearance after so long," she continued. "I was surprised by just how confused that I am. In the last two years, I thought I had gotten control over my emotions, but I think that I was just deceiving myself. Now, I've got to rethink my whole life." she stopped, looking at him quizzically. "Is something funny? Why the smile?"

"I'm sorry, Liz. You're describing exactly the kind of things that I've been feeling. I suppose that we shouldn't be particularly astounded by that," he concluded with a bitter grin.

"I was thinking of something that you told me the other day, about being unable to find someone to live up to the standard you held. I can relate to that because, after my disaster with Dan, I've had basically the same problem. I held my heart out twice, and had it broken both times, which led me into thinking that it would be safer to build a wall around myself and hold everyone at arms length. I guess that when you're subjected to enough emotional pain, you either crack up or become immune to it. I tried to insulate my heart by putting it into a deep freeze," she paused. Stillman felt a tugging at his heart. At her office, he had been reluctant to try to console her, but now he crossed the small room and took her hand in his. She looked up at him and he could see by the wetness in her eyes that she was on the verge of tears. He looked away quickly, unable to bear the burden of having caused those tears. He cursed himself because, even though he was a writer, he couldn't think of a single appropriate or consoling word. The sad fact was that sometimes mere words were not enough. After a moment, she continued, "Making an ice house out of your heart isn't a real solution. It's a coward's way out, really."

She grasped his hand firmly and gazed directly into his eyes. "I have a question, David, and I expect an honest answer."

Stillman could sense the undercurrent of reproach in her voice. Though it stung, he said nothing, knowing that he had earned it. He had bought and paid for every tear that she had shed. Nothing that she could say to him was undeserved or unwarranted. "I need to know your plans. I think that I'm entitled to ask. You come to me, sailing suddenly into my life like a tornado, and I want to know what you intend to do now."

What could he say? In truth, he didn't know himself. She sensed his indecision. "David, if you can't give me a concrete answer or if you know full well that you're going to leave, then I'm going to walk out that door and we'll never see each other again. I can't conceal the fact that I love you, but I don't intend to be ripped apart again."

He looked down at the floor, but she took his chin in her right hand and gently raised his face to hers. "Speak to me David, like you did when we first met."

For a second, he was unsure how to proceed, but eventually he began, choosing his words carefully. "I have no excuse for the pain that I've caused you or no real defense for some of the things that I've done. When I was young, I didn't believe that it was possible to love someone for who they were. I really didn't believe that you could love me unless I demonstrated that I had some talent, some value. I've learned that this was grossly unfair to both of us. It only shows that I had very little faith in you and absolutely no self esteem. I don't want to try to rationalize it, but when you have nothing, getting something becomes a measuring stick for success. It took me a long time to recognize that this was a pile of All American bullshit. I've obtained a certain measure of success, modest as it may be, but it doesn't mean a damn thing. I'm less deserving of you now than I ever was. I admit that I don't have any real plans for the future, beyond finishing this book. I do think though that I've learned to adjust my priorities a bit, if that's any help."

Stillman hoped that his words were not as contrived or as lame as they sounded to his own ears. Elizabeth considered his response for a moment. It was typical of the David Stillman that she remembered...apologetic and self-deprecating. She did have to admit that he showed new signs of maturity, as if he had come to terms with some of the more enigmatic facets of his personality. Softly, she said, "David, I do understand a great deal of what you felt before you left. For the longest time, all that I could feel, whenever I let myself think of you, was anger and betrayal. It's true, though that time gives you a new perspective on old events. When I could finally let go of some of the hurt, I began to see a bit of how things were for you. I came to understand that no one can live for another person, like you were living for me. After awhile, it's impossible to retain any kind of self respect or individuality. If you try to live your life vicariously through someone else, you cease to be an individual and only become an extension of that other person. You have to live for yourself before you can live with anyone else."

Stillman sat silently, seeing this beautiful woman as he had never seen her before. The depth of her empathy astounded him. She had taken a complex group of emotions and concisely laid them out for him. It had taken him years to discover what she had just so eloquently stated in a matter of seconds.

"There's more," she added. "If we're being brutally honest, you were never a secure person. In all of the years that I knew you, I could never make you see that being born poor or to an alcoholic parent doesn't leave an indelible brand on a person. I realize that you never could have been happy with us because you never would have felt secure with me. Trying to live with the idea that your wife or lover is so much better than you are is a tremendous demand to make of anyone. So you see, after seven years, I understand why you had to try and find your place. It wasn't that your intentions were bad. It's just that you went about everything the wrong way."

"I, I don't know what to say," David stammered. "You never cease to amaze me. Nobody ever took the time to look at me and see more than a superficial exterior. I was a writer and whatever that entails, anything beyond that just didn't matter. You're the only person who ever saw me for more than a cardboard cut out and look what I've given you in return. I use to wonder if I was just your social project; you know, some kind of charity case or makeover victim. It's incredible how wrong I was." He could say no more. The scope of his stupidity staggered his imagination. He sat before a one of a kind woman, who had truly loved him, knowing that he had rejected that love because he lacked the fortitude to face up to it.

"You can rebuild bridges, David," she whispered. He looked up, both startled and hopeful. "You can close gaps between hearts. It just takes work and time. Do you think that it's worth the time in our case?"

"Oh God, yes," David exclaimed, hoping but not believing at the same time. "But I'm afraid that I don't know where to start, Liz."

"With lunch, of course," she laughed, trying to diffuse some of the gravity of the moment. Then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

3

They went to lunch at Momma Antonelli's, taking his discovery of her business card to be an act of providence. Elizabeth had reached inside the plastic casing and slipped that card into her purse. A good luck talisman, she had told David. The waiter came and they ordered a carafe of red wine. Elizabeth ordered a Caesar Salad and David, feeling jubilant, ordered the large spaghetti with garlic bread. Stillman was pleasantly surprised by the ease with which they slipped back into their old rapport. The conversation was light and enjoyable as they broached on all sorts of subjects. Elizabeth could visualize the two people that they had once been, sitting and talking about whatever came to mind. She felt as if time had circled back on itself.

A news broadcast, over the restaurant radio, caught Elizabeth's attention and she frowned. David saw her shudder slightly and focused his attention on the report. A solemn sounding newscaster was relating the latest developments in a local murder case:

The Sheriff's Department still has no new leads regarding the two murders, but Sheriff Avery Mathis has assured the press that his department is working diligently on all preliminary information gathered so far, though he has no suspect in the double mutilation murders.

David had been unaware of either murder and looked to Elizabeth for an elaboration. She poked aimlessly at the salad with her fork, suddenly looking troubled. She spoke in a voice bereft of animation, but still conveying the degree to which these murders had affected her. "In the last four or five days, there have been two brutal murders here in Semelar. One was a young man, who was a pretty unsavory character according to the news. The other was an eleven year old boy. He was found crucified on a telephone pole; eviscerated and headless. They suspect that the murders could be related to some sort of Satanic Cult."

Stillman remembered his portent of that September day, when he had first returned to Semelar. He vividly recalled the image of blood and flesh boiling in a pool. He had dismissed the incident as a case of flashback, but now the news of these two murders brought the episode back with blinding clarity. His subconscious mind conjured the memory as if it were somehow related to the two deaths. It had made the jump so automatically, that he found the notion disturbing.

"I take it that the police have no real idea who might be responsible?" he inquired, his expression troubled.

"Of course they're unwilling to come right out and say so, but that would be my guess. I can't imagine what kind of monster would be capable of such a thing. Viola Cooper spent the last four days under heavy sedation. Just think how deep of a scar this will leave on her. If something like that were to happen to Nath, they might as well to bury me too. I could never survive a nightmare like that." Again, she shuddered, the fear naked in her eyes. "I hope that they catch the killer and I hope that he pays in spades for what he's done."

"Why do you assume that it's a he?" Stillman asked, though he had no prior intention to ask that question. He had the disquieting notion that someone was speaking through him.

"I don't know?" she replied, looking confused. "I guess, as a mother, I couldn't comprehend of another woman doing something so horrendous to a child. I guess that it was a bit of a chauvinistic slip."

He was possessed by the strange certainty that, perhaps her automatic assumption had been incorrect. He also had the vague notion that all of these intuitions were in some way connected to his episode. "I had an odd experience when I first came back to town. I can't tell you what caused it or even what it was, because I don't really know myself."

Elizabeth watched him closely, not sure that she cared to hear whatever it was that he was about to say. She could feel the flesh on her back begin to rise into hackles as if a cold wind had started blowing through the restaurant. The atmosphere had suddenly become grave and somber in stark contrast to the light-heartedness they had felt only moments ago. Stillman stared down at his empty plate as if seeking guidance or comprehension from the patterns there. "I saw something bizarre. No, that's not what I'm really thinking. What I saw was more along the lines of a portent; a field of blood and destruction. I nearly drove my car into the trees. It was like some type of extremely lucid nightmare. The whole thing struck me as some sort of warning... like an obscure omen. Now, in light of what you've just told me, that impression is stronger than ever."

He awaited her reaction, while she, in turn, considered what to say. "Are you saying that you've had some kind of premonition?"

"I guess I am," he replied. "I know how crazy it all sounds, but I swear that this is exactly what happened. I start having slaughterhouse daydreams and suddenly Jason appears in Semelar.

She winced at his choice of adjectives. He saw this and said "I'm sorry Liz. I'm starting to sound like a character out of Rod Serling's "Night Gallery". I think that after seven years apart, we can think of a little more pleasant topic of conversation. Tell me about Nathaniel."

She was grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. Though she concealed it well, the whole topic had shaken her badly, filling her with a bewildering sense of dread. A stark voice whispered that Semelar's horror would soon up end the small world that she had built for herself. She turned her thoughts to Nathaniel and began to tell David about her son. As he listened to her speak, David was impressed by the depth and strength of this woman's love for her son. It radiated from every gesture, from every word that she spoke. A small, selfish part of him envied the boy for that love. He hoped that someday Nathaniel would grow up to appreciate how lucky he was. It saddened him to think that such a love was often taken for granted.

"Nathaniel was my saving grace, David. He kept me afloat when I could have easily sunk right out of sight. I had completely lost my self confidence. Every day seemed so pointless, so laborious. I had lost just about everything that I valued. Do you know what hurt the most, David?"

He shook his head, almost dreading the answer.

"The thing that cut the deepest was the pleasure that certain people seemed to take in seeing me lost and struggling. It was as if these people, many of whom I had always considered to be my friends, all felt the need to display their contempt and dislike for me. I felt isolated and disillusioned. If it had just been me, I would probably have become a lonely, embittered woman. I wasn't alone. I had Nathaniel and he needed me. I came to see that his world was coupled with mine and if I gave up, I would be betraying that innocent trust. That responsibility gave me the strength to persevere. I endured and became a stronger woman for it. I'd really like for you to meet him, David."

"I'd love to, Liz," Stillman whispered, choking back his emotions.

"You could come to dinner tomorrow night. I'd love it if you would."

"I will gladly," he said, feeling as if some heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders.

They spent another forty five minutes engaged in idle chatter, reveling in each other's company. The afternoon shoppers came and went, as time passed. As Elizabeth Simpson had said, the two commenced building bridges across the gap between them. In the course of that afternoon, they came to know that their ties, though somewhat time worn, had not eroded and were still strong. Looking inside themselves, they found the remnants of their long buried love. For a time, they recaptured that special feeling that transcends happiness, rising to contentment. Each was unaware of the storm that was gathering just over the horizon, or how that storm would soon engulf them both.

Chpater Fourteen: The Heavy Hand of Justice

1

The truth was liquid gold, powerful and fiery. It flowed from the bottle, infusing every part of his being with clarity and comprehension. He gripped the bottle as if to drop it would mean the destruction of everything that he was...the murder of the light. It was a divine elixir, this magic potion. He knew this, because she had given it to him and she was magic incarnate. With her help, the scales had fallen from his eyes. Not the false faces that people wore, but their soul face; the face that they concealed under a veil of deception. She had removed those veils and now the demons stood exposed before him. He could see their sneering, petulant faces everywhere he looked.

As he looked across the bar into the full length mirror beyond, he could see his own true face. Now, with the truth upon him, as well as in him, he noticed the subtle changes. The eyes, which were once dispirited, now had a glimmer of hope and strength in their murky depths. He owed that glimmer to the magic lady. She had provided him with the means to his reconstruction.

Intermingled with this hope was anger. Though anger was too mild a word really, perhaps rage would have been more appropriate. There was a buzzing in his head, very much like a swarm of angry wasps in search of something upon which to vent their wrath. He hoisted the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. The amber fire sent his frenzy surging up another octave. For the longest time, he had blamed himself for falling into the pit, but it was evident that he had been pushed. He could almost see the pit yawning open like the very mouth of hell, with him tottering precariously on the rim. He could see the sanctimonious bastards preaching to him as they did their best to push him in. True, he had let himself be dragged to the edge, but only because he was too trusting, too accommodating. But today, through some act of providence, he had been shown the truth and given the chance to make amends. He would show everyone that he would no longer be manipulated, starting with his ingrate of a wife and his moronic son. He would chastise them and teach them the meaning of respect and loyalty.

Milton Cory was the night bartender at the Red Oaks Tavern. He had been for the past fourteen years and in that time he would contend that he had learned as much about human nature as any high paid psychologist. He had learned how to gauge people, to know when they were on the verge of exploding. As he removed and stacked glasses, he closely watched Ernie Simms.

Simms had frequented the tavern for as long as Milton could remember. He was a gregarious man by nature. Milton wished that all of his regulars were more like Simms. Most were, but it only took a handful of troublemakers to stir up the shit. Milton had divided the troublemakers into two categories; the bellowing windbags, who made a point of loudly expressing their dislikes and opinions about anyone or anything that attracted their attention, and then there was the more volatile, silent brooders. The later troubled him the most. He had learned how to handle the windbags, but the brooders were like human nitroglycerin bombs...unstable and ready to explode at the slightest provocation.

Taking the occasional furtive glance in Simms' direction, Cory could see the thunderclouds gathering on the man's brow. Something had gotten into Ernie and was gnawing on his guts. Cory just hoped that Simms would not come unhinged here. After awhile, Simms rose and stumbled in the general direction of the door. Milt winced when Simms cracked his knee on the edge of the pool table, but Ernie just continued towards the door as if it had never happened. When Simms had finally made his meandering exit, Milton breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that the inevitable explosion would not happen in his tavern.

Outside, the cool evening air hit Ernie like a fast moving freight. For a brief, but alarming moment, he was afraid that he was going to faint. He leaned against the building and waited for the feeling to subside. When it did, he made his way to his car. He fumbled for his keys, dropped them twice and realized that his door was unlocked. A rational part of his mind told him that he might be a shade too drunk to drive, but he told this watchdog to go fuck itself. Good fortune seemed to guide him unerringly through the brisk afternoon traffic. Simms could sense himself being propelled forward by both righteous anger and the image of the woman whose will he was about to serve.

2

Jimmy sat in the living room on a ratty brown sofa, staring absently at Wheel of Fortune. He could feel the impending storm rapidly approaching, but he was unsure of what form it would take. He knew that it would come soon, for she had promised him as much and he believed that she was the type of creature who would make good such promises. He had sent out feelers, trying to detect the direction from which her attack would come. Dejectedly, he had discovered that a descending veil of blackness had fallen over the town; one which he could not penetrate. The thing that troubled him the most was his father's continued absence. He had left at two O'clock. It was now seven and he was nowhere to be seen. This thought had no sooner taken shape in his mind, when he heard the front door handle click. A wave of blackness poured into the apartment, carried on a carpet of cool air. It was diluted, almost grayish next to that of the witch, but it was still dangerous and terrifying.

Ernie moved through the doorway and into the entrance. Jimmy saw at once that the witch had corrupted him. His eyes were blazing red with fury and his posture seemed to threaten extreme violence or worse. In the kitchen, Mrs. Simms went about her work, unmindful of her Ernie's return. When she heard the closet door open, she wiped her hands on the dish towel and went into the living room to greet her husband. All afternoon she had been feeling unsettled and anxious. She could not have specified what caused her anxiety, but it was augmented with every second that Ernie stayed away. She had tried to dismiss his lateness, thinking that he had just stopped in at the Red Oak for a drink or two, but some vague apprehension continued to nag her. His arrival lifted her out of this disquiet. Her happiness soon evaporated when she saw him. He looked absolutely crazy. "What's the matter, Ernie?"

"Oh, nothing is wrong at all; At least not anymore. I understand everything now," he rasped. He wore a grin, but it was humorless and as forbidding as rusted barbed wire. He felt fuzzy headed when he was driving home, but now he felt preternaturally alert and sure of himself. The dark lady had offered him redemption if he could show his worthiness and he was determined to do just that. His wife saw this fire burning in his eyes, and took a reflex backwards step. "I don't know what you're talking about." she stammered. "What did the doctor say?"

"She told me the truth," he snapped, still grinning insanely.

"About what, for God sakes?" she cried, beginning to feel afraid now.

"The truth about you and that little bastard!" he roared, his face turning beet red and spittle flying from his lips. He gestured towards Jimmy, who was rising from his seat. His eyes had popped as wide as silver dollars, out of both fear and understanding. She had done this to his father. He could smell her malignant presence radiating from the derelict little man like a noxious gas. His father's eyes locked on his. "What are you staring at, boy?"

"I know who you are," he whispered.

"What did you say?" Simms screamed, unable to believe how impudent the little fucker was, even after he had been exposed. "I know what you two have been trying to do. I see your real faces now. She showed me the truth. You want to drag me down; almost did it too, but no more. Ernie Simms is too smart to be fucked over by anyone. She told me that. She showed me that. Now I'm gonna show you, so you don't ever forget." As he raged, the strange, psychotic smile never left his face. He began to advance upon his wife.

She realized that he intended to hurt both her and the boy and understood how desperate their situation was. She reached over and grasped Jimmy by the shoulders, pulling him behind her in an effort to shield him from her deranged husband.

"Don't defy me woman. I'm on to your ways now," he growled in a low voice.

Slowly she backed into the kitchen, taking a compensating step backwards for every forward step that Ernie took. "For years you sneered behind my back, trying to push me down and keep me there, but I'm wise to you. You've got a lesson to learn."

He glanced around the kitchen and his eyes settled on the kitchen stove. He looked back at the pair huddled against the kitchen counter, and smiled slyly. He darted toward the stove like a striking cobra. Something seemed to be directing his thoughts and actions; manipulating him as if the scene had been carefully choreographed. A skillet sat on one of the stove's front burners, simmering on medium heat. It contained the two pork chops that were meant to have been Ernie's supper. He gripped the handle and lifted the skillet from the element. This got Mrs. Simms moving. The opening between the kitchen and the living room beyond was now clear. They were closer to the opening than Ernie was. Mrs. Simms pushed Jimmy towards the door with such a vigorous shove that he very nearly lost his balance and fell. He brought one hand forward and regained his balance. Then he ran through the opening.

Mrs. Simms tried to follow suit, but Ernie reacted too quickly. Grasping the skillet in his left hand, flesh still burning and nearly black, he swung the pan in a great arc. It whistled through the air, connecting solidly with the back of Norma Simms' right shoulder. She screamed in pain and grasping her broken shoulder, staggered into the door frame. He struck her again, with the flat of the pan, in the centre of her back. Norma made a low moaning sound, as two ribs snapped. At last, she sank slowly to her knees. Jimmy simply could not get his feet to move. He could only stand and watch as his mother sagged to the floor. Her face was distorted into a rubber mask as it dragged along the wall. Her eyes were blurry and unfocused. He looked up at his father, or rather the man who had once been his father. Insanity blazed in his eyes along with a look of long awaited vindication. "Now you see who the boss is, don't you? You'll never sneer at me again. No one will."

His mother coughed and spat up a great glut of blood. Despite her agony, she still managed to say, "Run Jimmy, please get help."

Her plea broke his paralysis. He turned to ran towards the entrance, but before he reached the door, he heard a sound that would haunt him for years to come. After he had fled, his father had become infuriated by his wife's continued defiance. He raised the pan above his head and brought it down with all of the force that he could muster. It caught Norma flush on the top of the skull, the edge of the pan connecting with a resounding crack. It was this crack which froze Jimmy in his tracks. Norma pitched forward onto her face with a dull thud. Now the blood lust was upon Simms and he continued to rain blow after blow upon her skull. The barrage of blows went on for what seemed like an eternity. Blood sprayed the room in sheets as the iron skillet reduced Mrs. Simms' skull to rubble. Blood and cerebral fluid spread across the floor, beneath the body, in an ever expanding pool.

"There!" he screamed down at the lifeless ruin at his feet. "You'll never defy me again, will you? Will you?" he screamed over and over.

To Jimmy, it seemed as if Simms had no real notion of what he had just done. He screamed down at her as if he expected her to beg for forgiveness. Simms now looked totally demented, with his mad, whirling eyes and gore masked face. Suddenly, his head snapped up and he fixed Jimmy with a malevolent glare. "Now, you little bastard, it's your turn. She's learned and now you're gonna learn too."

He slowly came towards Jimmy in a bolting lurch, swinging the skillet before him like a thresher. Jimmy's heart leaped up in his chest. To his horror and consternation, the door would not open. He turned the handle and pulled, but the door did not open. He tugged frantically on the handle, his panic stricken mind not grasping the obvious fact that the door was locked. A bloody hand clamped down upon his shoulders and jerked him back into the room. He pin wheeled his arms for balance, thought that he had gotten it, but tumbled heavily over an end table. The end table served as a pedestal for Mrs. Simms prize possession; a crystal lamp. It crashed to the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces that spread over the floor like crude diamonds. For a brief moment, Jimmy's mind focused on the shattered lamp. It provided him with a poignant example of how utterly his life had fallen to ruin.

Then Ernie towered over him, raising the bloody skillet to deliver the killing blow. It descended with a deadly whistle. Jimmy rolled to the right and the pan crashed to the floor only inches from his head. He rolled backwards and came to his feet about five feet from where his father stood. He moved to position the couch between himself and his father, hoping to circle back to the door.

Ernie straightened up and glared at Jimmy as if trying to gauge his intentions. Rivers of sweat pored down his flushed face, diluting some of the blood that was congealing upon his cheeks and chin. Gone from his face was the false levity. "We can play this cat and mouse game as long as you like, but it is only delaying the inevitable. You'll never live to see the other side of that door."

The words and voice were those of the witch, speaking through the monster she had created. Then the face seemed to ripple and the eyes became vacuous. Jimmy faked right towards the door and then rapidly changed directions and veered to his left. Ernie fell for the misdirection and moved around the right side of the sofa. Simms cursed when he saw that he'd been tricked. He twisted and then leaped over the sofa, swinging the skillet as he flew.

Jimmy leaned back out of range, but fell in the process. Simms had leaped with all of the grace of a hippo and the effectiveness as well. He ploughed into the sofa, causing the old couch to collapse and send him face first onto the floor. Simms was momentarily stunned and Jimmy saw his chance to escape. He jumped to his feet and raced to the door, unmindful of the slivers of glass which had bitten harshly into his palms. He reached the door and thinking more clearly this time, flipped the lock, turned the handle and fled into the night.

In the centre of the living room, Ernie was lumbering to his feet. His head was beginning to pound and he gingerly ran his fingers over the area where his skull had struck the floor. The skin had begun to swell and discolor, rising like a geological fold. He looked about and upon seeing the open door, snatched up his skillet and headed off in pursuit of his son. With mounting desperation, Ernie understood that his last chance at redemption was slipping through his fingers.

3

David Stillman swung his Old's into the dimly lit motel parking lot. A lone spot light provided the lighting for the entire parking lot. The light was inadequate and submerged the lot in shadows. He reduced his speed as he moved towards his parking space. The day had been one of the most enjoyable that he had spent in years. He had fantasized about just such a day, but the reality of his time with Elizabeth surpassed his fantasies. He dropped her off in front of her house and as they said goodbye, she leaned down through the window and firmly kissed his lips. Much to his chagrin and her amusement, he actually blushed. She laughed gaily and walked away, leaving him feeling warm and delirious.

As he drove home, he had replayed that kiss again and again; wallowing shamelessly in the warmth and softness of her lips as they pressed against his, feeling the weight of her breasts as they pressed against his forearm. These images and sensations were now etched firmly in his mind. They demonstrated just how hollow he had allowed his life to become. With just one kiss, she had revitalized his heart and soul. These were the thoughts that occupied his mind as he negotiated the cratered landscape of the parking lot. Suddenly, a form loomed in front of his car, only two feet from the bumper. Its passing startled him out of his reverie and he jammed his foot down on the brake. His body was wrenched forward, only to be snapped back by the seat belt.

"What the hell was that?" he muttered. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. He was just about to release the brake and finish parking, when a second figure ran into the circle of light. The figure stopped and peered through his windshield. David recognized the face of Ernie Simms. Simms, who normally wore a placid, if somewhat bleary expression, now looked demented and menacing. His face and shirt were covered in blood and in his left hand he brandished a skillet, which was also covered with gore. Evidently, Simms must be chasing the first figure that he had seen. David opened his door and stepped out onto the asphalt. Ernie looked after the fleeing figure and back to Stillman as if he were undecided about what to do next.

"Ernie, what the hell is wrong?" Stillman ventured cautiously.

"Don't try to interfere. The little whelp has to be punished. He has to learn, just like his mother did," Ernie warned, his upper lip twitching uncontrollably.

"Help! Please help me," a high pitched voice issued out of the darkness. "He killed my mother. He wants to kill me too."

Stillman turned from the voice, back to Simms, who looked utterly confused. "I did no such thing. I merely... I just taught her some respect. The eyes... she told me... Oh God, AH!"

Simms' face contorted into a mask of pain, as if something had prohibited his explanation. He clamped both hands to his head and let loose a wail of agony, as if his brain were being skewered by a lance. The pain caused him to drop the skillet. Stillman closed his door and went to his assistance. With surprising speed, Simms stooped down and retrieved his weapon. He advanced on the startled Stillman and lashed out with the pan, fully intending to separate David's head from his shoulders. Stillman reacted quickly, but was still a fraction too slow. The edge of the pan caught him on the forearm with a meaty thud. A sharp snap punctuated his scream of pain.

Had Stillman gone backwards, Simms might well have connected with his second blow, but some instinct of survival hurled him directly towards Simms. He struck Ernie in the mid- section, sending him to the asphalt with a muffled thud. He lay there, gasping for breath. Stillman, despite the immense pain in his arm, retained the presence of mind to kick the pan well out of Simms' reach. It clattered across the pavement, out of sight. David clutched his broken arm and leaned against the car. He closed his eyes and tried to dominate the pain. He could hear Simms gasping on the ground beneath him. "Are you alright, mister?" he heard someone say. He opened his eyes to see a small blonde boy looking up at him with a mixture of concern and fear. "Can you hear me?"

"I think so," Stillman managed, beginning to feel faint. The boy glanced down at his father, who seemed to have slipped into a semi-conscious stupor.

"He tried to kill me and he did kill my mom." the boy moaned and then burst into tears. Stillman enfolded him in his good arm, gazing with bewilderment at the fallen Simms. He felt like a hiker who has just stepped into a wasp's nest. All along the length of the motel, lights were coming on and doors were opening as people came out to investigate the cause of the commotion. When they assessed the situation, most closed their doors and turned out their lights, but one man in a ratty red bath robe, called out, "Can I be of any help?"

"Yes, could you please call for an ambulance and then call the police," Stillman replied. The man nodded and disappeared back into his room. The night's drama was at an end.

Chapter Fifteen: Aftermath

1

Blue and red light washed across the front of the Motel in alternating waves, providing a macabre atmosphere for the entire scene. Two paramedics, dressed in virginal white flecked here and there with blood, wheeled a stretcher over the broken pavement. The stretcher held a dark green, zippered utility bag, which contained the battered remains of Norma Simms. The Police photographer, M.E. and forensics team were all engaged in their respective tasks. Sheriff Mathis leaned against the door, staring disconsolately at the spot where Norma Simms had taken her final fall.

There were subtle changes in the man's face. Changes which had taken place in the past week. Some of these changes could be attributed to physical stress. Mathis had slept, on average, four hours per day in the last week, but the real cause of the changes was somewhat more complex than that. He recalled his dream of a few nights before and how it had awoken him in a cold sweat. Each death had taken its toll on him, as if the paramedics had wheeled away a portion of his sanity with each body. Three murders in less than a week. Something seemed to be gathering and spreading like a contagion through the life blood of the town. He knew there would be more, as surely as he knew that each death would eat away a small piece of his soul. He doubted if any of his peers suspected what was happening to him. They all wore glum faces that resembled his, but they would go home to their families, putting aside the horror of what they had seen. Mathis was incapable of that little trick of selective thinking. Once he had believed in himself and his abilities, but now he understood how inadequate he really was. This understanding was killing him by degrees.

He surveyed the kitchen. They were all here; the principal actors in the night's fatal drama. Still he had the impression that the main character was missing. He glanced down at his digital watch. It had been twenty five minutes since his arrival. He knew that he would have to clean up the situation as quickly as possible because the jackals were overdue. Avery's jackals were the members of the media and once they arrived, they created incontrovertible truths that served nothing but their own ambitions. He gestured to one of his deputies, "Alright, let's move Simms out of here."

Two policemen gripped Simms by either shoulder and raised him to his feet. He was totally disconnected and as pliable as a rag doll, but as he came adjacent to the Sheriff, he stiffened and turned to Mathis. "The eyes directed me. You people shouldn't have interfered. The eyes will make you pay for your meddling."

Mathis saw something in the depths of the other man's passion. He could almost define its shape, but then Simms slipped back into the fog. Mathis gestured towards the door and the two Policemen pushed Simms out into the night. The man was mad, Mathis thought, but perhaps possessed would have been a better choice of words.

David Stillman and Jimmy Simms sat on straight back chairs in the kitchen, waiting to be dismissed. Jimmy had said nothing. He stared into his bandaged palms, without seeming to blink. Mathis wondered what he was seeing on that screen of white linen. Stillman sat there, in obvious pain. The ME had placed his arm in a splint and sling, but the pain of the fracture was clearly printed on his face. He paced over to where Stillman sat. "Mr. Stillman, I promise that we'll have you off to the hospital in just a few moments if you could just indulge me for a few questions."

Stillman, despite his own pain, could sense the misery and desperation in the other man's words. "Sure, Sheriff."

Mathis pulled up a chair next to David's, sat down and leaned in close. Stillman thought that the two must look rather conspiratorial. "When you first pulled in and saw the boy and then Simms, did you happen to see anyone or anything else?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, Sheriff?" Stillman replied, puzzled more by the whisper than the question.

"I'm wondering if anyone else came out of the Simms apartment after the other two."

"I didn't see anyone else. First the boy and then Simms chasing him and waving that bloody skillet. I never really looked back at the apartment, so I can't say that someone didn't come out."

"I see," Mathis murmured. He stroked his lips pensively, as Stillman watched and waited. David stole a quick glance at Jimmy, who continued to stare at his hands. He had shifted his position slightly and Stillman thought that he was trying to listen to the exchange. "Sheriff, do you think that someone else was here, was involved in the murder?"

Mathis started to dismiss the question with a casual shrug of his shoulders, but then saw that the boy was staring directly at him. He looked somehow haunted and pursued. Mathis felt his heart flutter, as if he had stumbled over some essential truth while groping blindly in the darkness. "Jimmy, please tell me, was there someone else here?"

The boy continued to stare into the Sheriff's eyes and it appeared as is he might be searching for some insight into the man, trying to divine his trustworthiness. Could this man accept the truth or would he dismiss it as a child's hellish fantasy? He almost blurted out the entire story, but then the image of himself imprisoned at the hospital flashed in his mind and he said, "No, there was no one else here."

Mathis nodded grimly. Looking about the apartment, he doubted that the child had ever derived a good deal of pleasure from his old life. Now, he would be placed in a shelter and a series of foster homes. Mathis knew exactly how bleak this prospect was. David Stillman had registered an entirely different impression of the boy's answer. To Stillman's ear, the boy's words rang false. "Jimmy," Mathis continued, "We're going to take you to a community shelter for the night. Then, in the morning, I'll come by and pick you up. We'll have a long talk, okay?"

Jimmy said nothing, but nodded. Stillman could feel the boy's indifference, his resignation, and wondered why the world's insanity always seemed to catch children in its vice. A deputy led the boy away from what had once been his home. At the door, the boy paused and took a final look around the small apartment. His eyes fell upon the chalk outline on the floor. Mathis could see his mouth working silently. He could feel his own grip upon stability slip another notch. The boy gave them one last look and went out, leaving Stillman and Mathis alone. When he was sure that everyone had gone, Mathis turned to Stillman and said, "You saved a life tonight."

Stillman blushed slightly, "I think that the only life I saved was my own. Ernie fully intended to open my skull with that pan. I was just lucky to have stopped him."

Mathis nodded, "Nonetheless, if you hadn't come along, that boy might have ended up in the morgue, right beside his mother."

"Sheriff, I may be out of line for saying this, but something tells me that you think there is more involved here than just a man going crazy and trying to kill his family. The question that you asked me before suggests that perhaps someone prompted Simms into doing this."

"Simms killed her and then tried to kill the boy. I don't know why. I do know that senseless slaughter is reaching epidemic levels here in Semelar. Some sixth sense, some professional instinct, if you will, tells me that one thing is responsible. Simms was a drunk, that's no secret, but he was not a belligerent drunk. This is totally out of character for him. I pray to God that this is not the start of some kind of trend."

"Do you think that there's some kind of connection between this and the other two murders?" Stillman prodded.

"Yes, though I have no specific reason for thinking this, but I think that all three have some mutual link. Until I can establish some concrete connection though, all of my speculation isn't worth a bag of cow shit." Raw dejection and contempt colored the other man's words. Mathis struck Stillman as a drowning man engaged in a frantic search for a life preserver. "Sheriff, when Jimmy told you that there was no one else here when Simms killed Norma, I think that he was lying."

Mathis looked at Stillman and said somberly, "So do I, but I don't think that I'll be able to reach him. I'm going to try though, because the boy is all that I have right now. Something happened here tonight, something more than just the usual domestic insanity gone rampant. I think that the boy may have some idea what. If I can't reach him, can't make him trust me, there are going to be a good deal more scenes just like this one." As he surveyed the carnage, Mathis shuddered at the prospect of having to endure an endless succession of such nightmares. "This used to be such a peaceful town. There's always been a rowdy bunch that kicked up a fuss every now and then, but they were always manageable."

He waved a hand at the blood which was drying on both the tiles and the range. "This was never a part of things. It's easy to grow complacent, to think that you have things under control. Every now and then, something like this will come along to jolt you back to reality and rub your face in just how pathetically fragile our lives are."

Mathis was talking to this man, who he barely knew, but he could not contain the urge to speak. Normally Mathis was a stoic man, but he suddenly felt the need to discuss and dissect the pain and grief of this ordeal. This, as much as anything, illustrated how profoundly the murders had changed him. "I'm sorry to hold you up Mr. Stillman. I guess that arm must be aching something terrible by now."

"It does sting a bit," Stillman admitted with a shaky smile. In fact, it hurt a damn sight more than just a bit.

"Come on, I'll hold back that ambulance for you." The two men stood up and walked out into the night. Mathis closed the door and a deputy taped a three inch wide strip of plastic tape from door frame to door frame. The tape bore the warning: Restricted; no admittance, by order of the Semelar County Sheriff's Department

Suddenly a Channel Twelve News van came careening around the corner and into the parking lot.

"I ought to have the whole bunch arrested for reckless driving," Mathis muttered to Stillman. His disdain for the media was something that he had never quite succeeded in disguising. The van ground to a halt about twenty feet from where the two men stood and the side door burst open as if the marines had just landed on Okinawa. Mathis recognized the pretty face of Melissa Danford, as she charged towards him with her microphone extended like a jousting lance. A rapid fire barrage of questions brought forth a deep sigh from Mathis, who raised his hands in a plea for silence. "Hold it a minute Melissa. I can only answer one question at a time."

Stillman stood watching. He could see weariness settle over Mathis like a cloak. It was as if the pressure was a veritable weight, causing the man's shoulders to sag. The man was being placed under a tremendous strain and David suspected that it might not be too much longer before the seams of his sanity unraveled. Stillman could see Danford and recognized her immediately...not her specifically...but her type. LA had been full of women like Melissa...charming and beautiful with the tenacity of a pit bull and the ethics to match. Stillman did not envy Mathis for his momentary notoriety. The camera man trained his camera directly upon the pair and Stillman decided that it was time to depart as quickly as possible. He settled into the rear of the ambulance and closed his eyes. He could feel the ambulance pulling away as exhaustion settled into his bones. During the ambulance ride to the hospital, Stillman contemplated the whirlwind that seemed to be dragging him along.

2

Elizabeth Simpson sat at her kitchen table, waiting for the kettle to a boil. She had spent the last three hours applying the finishing touches to the preliminary sketches for the Mason commission. She was fairly pleased with her proposed alterations and was confident that Mrs. Mason would be favorably impressed with her recommendations. She planned to sit back with a pot of tea and let her mind drift. Usually the night before a presentation would leave her feeling tense, but recent developments had taken a good deal of the emphasis off of her work.

The kettle began to whistle and she got up to make her tea. Elizabeth unplugged her kettle, pouring the boiling water into the cup and placing the tea bag into its steaming depths. She let the bag sit in the water for over a minute, before withdrawing it and then carried the cup into the living room and placed it on a small wooden end table, beside the sofa. Elizabeth treasured the hours that she was able to spend relaxing on her own. She was sure that all mothers who were attempting to juggle a child and a career shared the same sentiment. She took her first sip of tea and let the warm liquid course through her, savoring the blend's exotic flavor. Elizabeth couldn't recall the last time that she felt so happy, so alive. Inside of her, there was a rekindling of a fire, a passion that she had subjugated for far too long. She would proceed cautiously with David and let things develop as they would.

To expect a life in which she had a devoted and loving husband, a child and a rewarding career was perhaps unrealistic. She was old enough to realize this, but with David back, she could quite easily visualize all of it. She picked up the remote and switched on Channel Twelve. The chime clock in the hall had just announced eleven and she hoped to catch the late edition of the local news. She was silently praying that the murderer would be caught and soon. Her heart had been gripped in an icy palm ever since she had first heard about the Cooper murder. Every moment that she spent away from Nathaniel gave her reason for concern.

The lead off story did nothing to allay her fears. A sullen looking Vincent Embers, The Channel Twelve anchorman, conveyed the latest developments in the continuing nightmare. "The savage tide of violent death, that has overrun Semelar of late, continued to swell tonight. Forty two year old Norma Simms was brutally murdered in her home. For further details, we now go to Channel Twelve reporter Melissa Danford, who is live at the scene."

Elizabeth bolted upright, with her eyes wide and her heart pounding. She recognized the motel because she had been there just this afternoon. She felt her happiness deflate as if it had been nothing more than a blown balloon. Her contentment was gone, replaced by a rush of panic. On the screen, the scene had switched to the Motel's parking lot, where Melissa stood before what Elizabeth assumed was the door to the Simms apartment. A length of tape spanned the doorway, looking like the very embodiment of death and desolation. Melissa regarded the camera with a practiced blend of professionalism and gravity. Her posture said, the situation is tragic but we must go on. Elizabeth, who normally liked Melissa, tonight found her to be contrived and felt a strong impulse to hurl her tea cup at the television screen.

After the standard introductory preamble, Danford began to report the details of the night's murder. "Though it is too early to be certain why, tonight Ernest Simms, manager of this motel, brutally murdered his wife, Norma Simms, in their apartment. It was the third murder in less than a week, however, no link has been established between this and the previous two murders according to Sheriff Mathis."

The camera cut to Sheriff Mathis addressing the media. To Elizabeth, he looked tired and harried. In a voice over, Melissa continued her account, "Though no details have yet been released, Channel Twelve News has been able to ascertain that Mr. Simms returned home at around seven o'clock this evening and shortly afterwards, tenants in the adjoining units heard angry shouting, which originated from the Simms apartment. At this point, police are speculating that Mr. Simms struck Mrs. Simms with a skillet, delivering the final blow to her head. In addition to killing Mrs. Simms, Mr. Simms attempted to murder his son, James, age nine. Mr. Simms pursued his son through the parking lot and may well have succeeded in killing the boy had it not been for the heroic intervention of Mr. David Stillman."

The image of the Sheriff dissolved to be replaced by the pallid face of David, as he climbs into the back of the ambulance. Elizabeth saw with growing dismay that he was in obvious pain. His arm was bound in a sling and his hand was hanging like a limp, lifeless spider. Watching, she felt nearly faint with panic. "Mr. Stillman, who is a Semelar native and a noted author of fiction, was able to subdue Simms before he could harm the boy. Stillman however, suffered a fractured forearm in the process. He has been taken to Semelar County Hospital for treatment and observation. Jimmy Simms escaped uninjured, save for several small abrasions to his hands, which he sustained while trying to escape the apartment. He has been taken to the Semelar County Shelter. When questioned, Jimmy gave no reason for his father's rampage. Mr. Simms was incoherent and also unable to provide a motive for his actions. He has been taken to jail, where he will be charged with second degree murder and attempted murder."

Again the picture faded, resolving to show a disoriented Simms being taken into the county jail. Melissa continued her monologue, offering an elaborate personal insight into the horror that has visited the town. Elizabeth heard none of this. She sat, staring dumfounded at the television, unable to digest what she had just heard, unable to decide what she should do. Her options were fairly limited; she couldn't leave Nathaniel and she certainly wouldn't find a sitter now. She jumped to her feet and ran to the phone. Her fingers trembled badly, causing her to misdial twice. She swore out of frustration, but at last dialed the correct number. After what seemed like an age, her connection was made. "Hello, Semelar County Hospital. May I help you?"

"Yes, my name is Elizabeth Simpson. I would like some information on the condition of David Stillman. He was admitted to your hospital in the last few hours," Liz replied, with a distinct quaver in her voice.

"If you'll hold the line for a moment, I'll put you through to admittance." The line went silent and again she waited. She squeezed the telephone cord in her hand, until her fingers turned white. After a time, a second voice asked how they might help and she repeated her request. "Yes, Ms. Simpson, Mr. Stillman has been admitted and treated. I believe that he is signing some papers. If you'll hold for a moment, I'll page him."

Some minutes later, David's voice came over the line. "Hello Liz. I guess that you've heard what's happened."

"Oh God David, I've been frantic. Are you really alright?" Stillman smiled. Her concern made it easier to ignore the dull ache in his arm.

"I'll live I suppose," he jested.

"You better mister," she laughed, though tears of relief began to stream down her face. "I've got plans for you and I've never known a hero before."

"Please lady, no applause. I have a swollen arm and I don't need a swollen head to match," he quipped, suddenly feeling the desire to laugh and joke. She thought that his levity seemed feigned and that despondency lay behind the mask.

"David, what are you going to do now? How are you going to get home?" she asked quietly.

"I'll have the admittance nurse call me a cab. The doctor who set my arm gave me a couple of horse pills and I don't think that I could keep my eyelids open with toothpicks."

"David, why not come here and spend the night. Don't go back to that awful place, please," she whispered. There was a long pause at the other end of the line and she could almost envision him struggling for the proper words. When again he spoke, his tone had become serious, the mock levity gone. "Liz, let's wait awhile. Let's go slow. It'll be so much sweeter that way."

She could feel the sting of his rejection. It made her feel foolish and small. "Fine," she whispered, trying to hold back the tears until she was off of the line. "But after I've met with Mrs. Mason, I'm coming over to take care of you and I'll not stand for any arguments either, understand?"

"I'll be a perfect patient, promise," he laughed. This time the laugh seemed genuine. "Good night sweet lady and please don't worry."

"Good night David," She hung up the phone and sat at the kitchen table, sipping her tea, as tears streamed down her lovely face.

3

Cynara was aware of her failure before the nightly news documented it. She sat in the black leather wingback, searching the darkness beyond her window for some indication of what had gone wrong. She had created an engine of destruction that should have easily eliminated the boy. Simms had succeeded in nothing but killing his pathetic wife. This was only incidental to Cynara, who cared not at all for this woman. Her life of impoverished servitude had been a waste and her death a blessing. The only matter of consequence was the boy's continued existence and the way in which she would deal with the father's failure. She was forced to concede that the boy was more formidable than she had first imagined. She doubted if he realized the full extent of his power. Had he been older and more in touch with the true nature of his puissance, it may have been a moderate challenge to take him apart, piece by piece. This thought made her smile. It broke across her face and shone like a dawning sun. To a casual observer it would look as if she were reflecting upon some pleasant moment in her life. She looked up and caught sight of her reflection in the glass of her window. There was her true treasure, the thing that she loved the most, her beauty.

She felt a new emotion emerging in her mind, adding a new factor to the equation...danger. She had never experienced this in the past, but now she could see a concrete threat to her plans. Not a personal danger; she was invulnerable save for the emerald dagger which she had taken great pains to conceal. The whelp posed a possible disruption to her scheme of conquering her coveted one. She had spent the last sixty years searching for the right mixture of purity and beauty; an ideal that she could conquer and make her own. Now, at last, she had found it, but in the bargain she had discovered something that could ruin everything. It was ironic that this threat would come in the form of a small boy.

She lightly ran a red lacquered nail along her thigh, enjoying the arousal her feathery touch evoked. Soon now, I will have the touch I have always desired. She closed her eyes and summoned the mental image of her ideal. She found herself slipping into this illusory world more and more often. It provided her with an incentive, with a purpose. As a girl, she remembered that there had been no concept of time. It came and went so quickly. Immortality was an inconceivable notion to most. It was a much sought after state, but few realized that there were negative aspects to eternal life. Time dragged slowly, the world changed, people came and went, but her life remained the same. After years of this, lethargy and even moroseness could erode the strongest of characters, making immortality a kind of hell. Most creatures of the night were solitary and this in itself contributed to their gradual decay. Cynara had encountered demons that were hundreds of years old. They all seemed so dispirited, so drained of vitality. She had vowed never to fall victim to such a trap. Her pondering had lead to her search for the ultimate companion.

She stood and moved idly about the room, admiring the woods and the rich leathers. She had made a miscalculation in sending the father to kill the boy. Though it bruised her massive ego, Cynara found it necessary to concede a standoff with the brat. Now she would have to undo the damage that her error had caused. Hindsight told her that she should have ignored the boy, but his painful attack had ignited her anger and against her better judgment, she had retaliated.

Now there was a small possibility that the son and the father would tell the same tale. She doubted that this would lead to any real legal problem, but she did not want any type of suspicion cast in her direction. The father had failed her and now he would suffer the consequences of that failure. She crossed to the window and unfastened the latch. Then she threw the window wide open. A cold wind rushed in, blowing back her hair.

Cynara backed away from the window, lowered her chin to her chest and closed her eyes. She placed the flats of her palms on her thighs and conjured up the image of the blood pool in her mind's eye. She could watch herself descending the marble steps. There she knelt and disappeared from view. As she stood this way, her body began to go through a rapid series of changes. Her hair began to drip and flow as it became liquid. Soon Cynara had dissolved into a gelatinous mass, as if her skeletal structure had been turned into wax. The remaining mass of flesh began to bubble and run together at an accelerated pace, until all that remained of the witch was a black puddle of organic tissue. For the next several seconds, nothing seemed to happen and then the mass began to shrink. Gradually, it began to consolidate, flowing into something with a seemingly definite purpose. A recognizable form began to take shape within the mass. After the transformation was complete, a large raven sat where the demon had stood only moments before. It flapped its wings, cawed and leapt up onto the window sill. It was a bird like any other, except for its eyes, which were rimmed with amber. The bird flapped its wings again and took to the sky.

4

In the urine and antiseptic stench of the holding cell, Ernie Simms gradually regained some semblance of coherent thought. His head and chest hurt and when he lifted his shirt, he was surprised to see a large blue and purple bruise spreading over his ribcage. He had no idea how he had come by these bruises, but he had a disturbing notion that he had been involved in something terrible. Try as he might, he could not recall what this terrible thing might have been. He stared about him and was shocked to discover that he was locked in a jail cell. What had he done? Surely it was nothing worse than drunk driving, but all recollection eluded him.

He tried to rise, but was too weak to make the effort. Instead he settled against the wall of his cell, trying to dredge up some of the night's happenings. That attempt was confounded by his drunken haze. This disorientation frightened him and he felt the overwhelming need to know what he had done. He was about to call out for a guard when his cell door swung open. He blinked and looked around, now becoming frightened as well as confused. Then the woman doctor strode into view and stood in the open doorway. She regarded him with eyes that were cold and mirthless, much like those of a spider. She held an eight foot length of rope in her hand. It was just an average piece of rope, but it sent an ice sliver down the length of his spine. "Well Mr. Simms, it seems that you've disappointed me."

She shook her head sadly and stepped into the cell. She was wearing a full length black velvet cloak, which she shrugged off and let fall to the floor. She glanced around the cell, taking note of the overhead pipe that ran along the ceiling. The pipe cut through the cell roughly in its centre. It was about five inches in diameter. Ernie followed her gaze to the pipe and his muddled mind made the connection at once.

"Oh no, please," he whispered, beginning to tremble now. He pulled himself into the far corner, trying to get as far away from the woman as the confines of his small cell would allow.

"Mr. Simms, I thought that you were a victim, but perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the image that I showed you is the way that you are meant to be. Look around you, Ernie, you could have had redemption... perhaps even me, but instead you are here at the very bottom. A pathetic wife murderer." she spat the last words like the lash of a whip. They ripped the veil asunder and it all came back to Simms in a flash that robbed him of his reason and drove him over the brink of abysmal despair. Hot, bitter tears spilled down his pale face. His entire life had been nothing but a sham and now, as a final cruel twist, he had destroyed the only person who had ever loved him. He put his head into his hands and wept.

"Ah," Cynara spat disgustedly. "Now you compound your waste and stupidity by crying like a child." In a fluid motion, she threw the rope over the pipe and seized Ernie's forearm, pulling his hands away from his face.

"For once in your fucking life, be a man," she screamed, so loud that he was stunned out of his self pity.

She took the length of rope and held it at a five foot interval and pulled it taut with a whip like snap. She wore a black tank top and leather gloves. When she pulled the rope taut, her muscles tensed, surprising Ernie with their size and hardness. He watched as she began to fashion the rope into a noose. When she had finished with the knots, she slid them along the rope to provide enough space for a head to slip through. "I'm afraid that there is nothing left for you but this, Ernest. It is your only honorable alternative."

"No please, I don't want to die. I don't deserve to die this way," he protested, though a look of resignation had settled onto his face.

"No Ernest, you don't deserve to live this way," she amended softly. With this she bent forward and dug her fingers into his shoulder. He was amazed by the power of her grip. The fingers dug into his deltoid muscles like spikes. She raised him to his feet and guided him to where the rope hung, waiting. She positioned herself between Simms and the rope. Taking him in hand, she whispered, "This is your way, it is where your road has led you. If you are to travel the path of redemption, it must begin here."

She gestured towards the rope and then looked back to Simms, smiling warmly. He could see wonders there, in those brown and amber depths. They held the promise of tranquility and contentment; things which he had never known. Those glowing orbs told him that he could have them all. She required only that he slip his head through the noose and there would be an end to all suffering, all humiliation. So simple really. It did not occur to him that it had been the promise of those eyes that had caused him to be there in the first place. Without warning, she leaned forward and kissed his lips. It was a kiss like no other that he had ever experienced, so full of passion and heat. The blissful enchantment of her kiss decided the issue. She was a magical lady, whose love would fortify him against the pain. Returning her smile, he stepped forward to the noose. He inserted his head into the loop and she drew the knot snug. Cynara took a firm hold on the end that she had thrown over the pipe. Wrapping the end around her two fists, she spread her long legs to gain maximum leverage, and pulled downward on the rope. Ernie Simms was lifted a full three feet into the air. She held him there with the casual ease of one engaged in mild physical exercise. Simms thrashed at the air with his legs and clutched at his swollen throat. He started to turn blue and his eyes bulged as his larynx collapsed. A smile had bloomed on Cynara's face, as she reveled in the spectacle of Simms going through his death throes. Eventually his struggling became less frenetic. Cynara lowered him to within a foot of the ground and then jerked her end of the rope downwards. There was a sharp snap as Ernie's neck broke. She then tied her end of the rope to the cell bars and left Simms dangling in the center of the cell. She stood regarding his twisting corpse for a moment and then walked out, closing the cell door behind her.

PART TWO: THE STORM

Chapter One: The Holy Man

1

As the next day dawned, the Semelar of David and Elizabeth's youth had vanished. The town's atmosphere had become both subdued and expectant. To many, it seemed as if the town had been placed under siege by an unseen army. News of the Simms suicide jolted the town. People assumed that Simms had taken his own life, unable to bear the shame of his crime. Avery Mathis, however, knew that something more sinister had claimed the broken little man. Suicide was certainly convenient, but spoiled by one simple question; where had Simms gotten the rope? To his chagrin, but not surprise, he was unable to produce an answer. Murmurs of discontent were filtering their way to his ears, grumbling at his inability to solve the rash of murders. This failure had created dissatisfaction amongst the town council members. Mathis could feel time winding down. Every morning the man staring back at him in the mirror looked that much more haggard.

David Stillman and his recuperation became one of Elizabeth Simpson's main concerns. Their days settled into a mutually pleasing pattern that brought them continually closer together. The day after his confrontation with Simms, Elizabeth had met with Mrs. Mason to present her proposed alterations. Much to her relief, Mrs. Mason was delighted with the proposed changes and had granted Elizabeth a free hand in implementing them. Feeling bolstered by her success, she had driven to David's motel to see how he was faring. She had found him bleary eyed and pain ridden, still in his robe and slippers. She had feigned disgust. "It's pretty obvious that you can't take care of yourself. I think that it was just luck that you survived the last seven years."

She gently pushed him into the room and forced him to lie down on his bed. He had laughed, asking her, "Aren't you being a little dramatic about this."

"Don't argue. Be a good patient," she countered severely. For the remainder of the day, she fussed over him, making him lunch and supper on his ancient hot plate. For the next four days, she came by twice a day, checking on his progress and keeping him well fed. Though the town was falling apart around them, their world had never been more fulfilling. Still, a house of cards fears the wind.

2

While Elizabeth Simpson and David Stillman laid the groundwork for their new life, Jimmy Simms sat alone in a small room at the Semelar County Shelter, which had become his temporary home. The room contained an old bed with a sagging mattress, a wooden desk and chair and nothing more. Jimmy considered the sparse furnishing and reflected as to how his life bore a disquieting similarity to this room...still livable but essentially empty. In the space of four days, his life had collapsed and he had come unglued from the fabric of the world. The witch had done this to him, but in an indirect way, he had done this to himself. Had it not been for his ' _talent_ ', he would never have discovered the witch's true nature. Jimmy was pragmatic enough to realize that dwelling on the unfairness of circumstances was a pointless waste of time.

The pervading feeling of impending disaster had diminished since last night's horror. Jimmy no longer felt the tension and the expectancy that he had prior to his father's rampage. It was as if she had turned her attention to something else. He didn't know why she had done this, but he was grateful for the respite. He decided to let matters lie for the time being. When Mathis had asked him to describe what had happened in the apartment, Jimmy had been deliberately evasive. For a second, Jimmy had considered telling him everything but his basic mistrust of adults prevailed. Mathis must have believed him to be distraught over the loss of his parents, because he had not pursued the matter.

So now Jimmy was completely and utterly alone. He did not find this state particularly disturbing. On the contrary, he found many aspects of solitude rather comforting. He had always viewed his family life as somewhat ludicrous, as if he lived in a glass bottle while the world carried on around him. He could not participate in its activities and after a time, was quite content not to. When he allowed himself to think about it, Jimmy was forced to confess that he felt very little remorse for his parents. He had grown up thinking that he was a stranger living with people that he did not really know. If he were being totally honest, he would have to admit that he harbored a certain degree of resentment towards his parents. He resented them because they had interpreted his reserve to be a form of mental illness and had forced him to endure hours of probing and questioning. In the end, he neither loved nor hated his parents. They were gone and he was here and that was the ultimate truth of the situation. He could find no tears to cry for either fact. A nine year old boy lay upon his bed, staring absently at the wall of his tiny room. He was small for his age, with delicate features some considered frail. His eyes were old beyond their years. They had witnessed things that others would not in the span of a dozen life times. They were the eyes of a person with a pointless, barren past and an uncertain future.

3

Father Jim McMannon sat in his rectory study, putting the finishing touches on the night's vespers sermon. He had been the priest at the Mother of Jesus Catholic Church for the past nineteen years. The Church was located just across from the north limit of Nathan Park and was frequented by many of Semelar's community leaders. This accounted for its lavish design and craftsmanship, making it the showpiece of Semelar's architectural community.

On a typical Saturday night, the parish pews were over ninety percent full and father McMannon took great pains to deliver his most 'entertaining sermon' on these nights. The years had shown him that there was a definite correlation between the entertainment value of his Saturday night sermon and the volume of cash in the Church collection plates. When he had first entered the Seminary and taken his vows, he had been an idealistic and fervent believer. Time and experience had eroded his faith in God and in the ability of the Church to have a significant impact upon the world around it. He had stopped thinking that he could do valuable work or make a real contribution to alleviate suffering and misery.

Mrs. Alberton, who had been his housekeeper for his entire tenure here, knocked and came into his study with a cup of tea and a freshly pressed Cassock. She draped the Cassock carefully over the arm of a plush blue sofa, cautioning McMannon, "It's nearly time, father. You wouldn't want to keep the parishioners waiting, would you?"

"No, Mrs. Alberton, I guess I wouldn't," he sighed. She was a sweet old woman and he found it easy to tolerate her mother hen mentality. He turned his attention back to his sermon, making sure that it packed the right punch. After reading through it, he smiled, satisfied with the end result. Tonight's sermon dealt with the dark times that had come to Semelar and the possible biblical implications that this black tide contained. He had combined the right amount of bombastic emotionalism and biblical allusion, both of which were guaranteed to instill the fear of God into all of his parishioners, emptying their wallets in the process. He recognized the measure of hypocrisy in all of this, but it was what they all wanted and so he delivered. It kept the Semelar upper crust flocking back week after week.

McMannon had not always been so cynical, or so pragmatic, as he preferred to think of it. There had been a time in his life when he had been devoted to helping people-helping the lost seek spiritual purity. He had worked tirelessly with the sick, the dying, the incorrigible and all other types of weary and misguided people. He had his successes, yes, but for every success there had been dozens of failures. He had watched them wash into the gutters, far beyond reach, far beyond help. He had called upon God for assistance, but as time wore on he came to believe that there was no one to hear his plea.

The final cut had come eight years ago. It was the blow that shattered his faith, not only in God's love, but in his very existence. At that time, he was heavily involved in a community home counseling program, which had been sponsored by the Semelar Church league. The program provided counseling for the needy people of the lowlands and others who were in need of spiritual or moral guidance. Two days per week, each church leader would make himself available for counseling duty. Father McMannon had joined eagerly, seeing the program as an opportunity to help people in their own homes, where they would feel less inhibited by their needs. The first six months of his participation had been comparatively uneventful. He had offered spiritual guidance to alcoholics, shut ins and the like, some of whom he reached and some of whom he did not. He found that he was able to accept his failures, because the consequences of these failures were not drastic. He had come to learn enough to understand that life for most of these people would go on, with or without his help. Thinking in these terms, he had been able to maintain a philosophical accommodation with his failures. All of that changed when he met Darleen Mortanson.

Darleen Mortanson had first called father McMannon asking if she could meet with him. He had asked if they could meet in her home, as was standard practice with this program. She hastily declined, saying that she preferred a more private meeting. He agreed to see her the next morning in his church. Her last words, before he had hung up, left him with the unsettling feeling that his entire life was about to be profoundly changed. "Father, I hope that you can show me a reason."

She had hung up before he had been able to ask her to elaborate. His first impression of Darleen was that she was an enigma. She was an extremely pretty girl, with golden blonde hair and a most appealing figure. She wore a constant whimsical expression on her face, which, when combined with her grey green eyes, gave her a deceptively vacuous look. Yet, there was an elusive quality about Darleen that baffled McMannon. He found his inability to put his finger on it frustrating because something told him that understanding this girl would be imperative if he were to help her. He had led her into his rectory study and seated her on a pastel leather wingback. She gazed about his study with undisguised longing. He in turn, noted the faded clothes and worn shoes and felt rather ashamed of his opulent surroundings. "How may I help you, Miss Mortanson?"

She said nothing for a long time, instead looking at him in an absent way. He found her gaze to be rather melancholy and quite endearing. "I don't know how you can help me or if you can help me at all Father. I'd just like to ask you a question."

"Then please do. I'll try to answer if I can," he smiled, hoping to set her at ease. She placed an index finger on her lower lip and asked. "When a person's physical body is violated is that person's soul also defiled?"

Father McMannon suddenly grasped the anomaly of the girl. Beneath her mantle of reticence there existed a fey, despondent young woman. What had seemed like a routine session had suddenly taken on ominous overtones. Fate had suddenly thrust them together towards this critical juncture. Her visit seemed fatalistic. The thought made McMannon shudder. Attempting to sound neutral, he said, "It would depend upon the situation."

"How?" she asked.

"For example, if the person did not bring the physical violation upon themselves, then their soul would remain inviolate."

"But what if that person was in some way responsible? I mean, what if you brought it upon yourself, without really knowing it. Would you still be tainted?"

"It's difficult to give you an answer, unless you can be more specific." He could sense the struggle taking place behind her eyes. "Please, you can talk to me... trust me. I can't help you if you won't tell me what is troubling you."

Her eyes had become vacant. McMannon felt as if he were looking through the windows of an empty house. "Sometimes I feel so small, so far away. It's as if I were looking in on myself. Like when he touches me, I drift outside of myself and it doesn't feel so bad and doesn't hurt as much."

"Who touches you, Darleen?" he asked. A rumble had begun to build in the pit of his guts.

"My Father, He touches me, does things to me. I let myself drift away then. I try to hide."

"Are you saying that your father has been sexually abusing you?" he asked, feeling the horrible seeds of comprehension budding in his mind.

"Yes, Father," she whispered softly, dropping her eyes to her hands.

"How old are you child?"

"Fifteen, Father."

"Darleen, you can protect yourself, you can go to the police. If you'd like, I can go with you. There is no reason that you should suffer like this."

This offer jolted her out of her trance. "Oh no, I must never do that. He promised that he would hurt me. Please promise me that you won't make me try to do that."

She was on the verge of hysteria, but McMannon was determined to make her go to the police. Her father's threats had been nothing more than that. McMannon was reasonably sure of it. "Darleen, he's just threatening you in order to keep you silent. Surely you must see that."

She looked at him thoughtfully and then began to undo the small plastic buttons at her cuffs. As he watched her roll up her thread bare sleeves, his heart was thundering in his chest. He looked into the girl's face and saw that tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. When she finished rolling up the sleeves, she bent forward and laid her forearms upon his desk for inspection. He reacted too slowly to stifle the moan that escaped his lips. A rash of whitish pink burn marks, the size of quarters, dotted her forearms. To his eye, they resembled cigar burns. In all, he counted nine separate scars.

"God almighty, did he do this to you?" he whispered, in a voice strangled with pity and revulsion.

"Yes. He told me that I was a sinful girl and must be punished. He told me that I had offended God." She seemed oblivious to the tears that were streaming down her face. Father McMannon was sure there was something more, as if all that she had said was only the tip of the iceberg. The thing inside of her seemed so immense that she lacked the adequate means to get it out, to articulate it.

"There's something more, isn't there? What is it, Darleen? What is it?" he pleaded, reaching across the table and gripping her wrists.

"Father, Oh God Father, I'm pregnant!" she wailed. He could say nothing only drag the flat of his palms across his face. All of the trite theology in the world seemed pathetically inadequate given the extent of this girl's despair. "Father, I can't have him touch me anymore. I can't go away when he does, because now he is inside of me as well as outside. I've nowhere left to hide."

He was up and around the desk in a fraction of a second. He took her in his arms and held her face to his chest. He could feel her body heaving against his. "I have to know that I've done nothing wrong." she continued. "I need a reason to keep living. I've looked around me and inside of me and I can't see the point of anything."

He held her out at arms' length and shook her vigorously. "Don't you ever say such a thing. You have to find your own reason for living girl. You can't let anyone steal that reason from you... ever."

"Can you pray for me father? Can you pray that I find the strength to do what I have to do, please? Can you pray that I find the reason? I have sin inside of me. I can feel it growing. Please pray that I will be forgiven."

"I will girl," he had promised, close to tears himself now. They spoke for another two hours. McMannon doubted he would be able to plumb the depth of her misery. Before she left, he made her promise to return the next day. She gave him that promise. As she left, she said, "I'll listen for that voice, Father."

Her words conveyed greater faith than anything that he had ever personally experienced. That night he prayed as he had never done before...beseeching God to intervene, to show his compassion. He went to sleep totally exhausted, but convinced that his prayers would be heard. He spent the next day awaiting Darleen's return, but by six o'clock that night it became evident that she wasn't coming back. He looked up her address in the phone directory. There was only one listing for Mortanson, but when he dialed there was no answer. A tiny worm of fear had burrowed its way into his heart and soul. He became convinced that something terrible had happened to the girl. McMannon would be unable to rest until he knew that she was safe. He crossed the tracks into the Lowlands on that rainy night, nagged by the feeling that he was much too late. As he watched the derelict buildings and the vacant faces pass before him, he observed that the Lowlands had never looked so desolate, so bereft of spirit.

He came to the two-story wooden house, located on the west end of Matin Street. The front yard was delineated by a picket fence that had once been white, but was now gray and peeling. The house was very much in the same condition. He pulled to the curb, parked the car and got out into the damp night air. He crossed the sidewalk and opened the gate, which swung, inward with a rusty squeal. He moved through it and looked towards the front porch. His heart sank when he saw the yellow fluorescent tape stretched across the doorway. He literally ran up the walk and onto the porch, the boards of which sagged under his weight. The tape was inscribed with a warning, which declared that the house had been closed by the order of the Semelar County Sheriff's Department. He tried the handle and found the door to be unlocked. Realizing that he was breaking the law, but needing to know what had happened, he opened the door, ducked under the tape, and went inside. The house was completely dark. A murky light filtered through the grimy windows, but it did nothing to illuminate the room. The house was silent, but McMannon felt a nervous tension working at his stomach. His ears quickly grew attuned to the house around him and the silence was replaced by a series of sinister sounding creaks and groans.

As he moved through the rooms on the lower floor, he was struck by the impression that the house itself had become a repository for the evil that had been committed within its walls. He came to a wooden door in an alcove, just off of the kitchen. He opened the door to find a set of stairs which led down into the gloom. He squinted, but could see nothing. He fumbled along the walls, searching for a light switch. His fingers found only the clammy dampness of bare brick. The foreboding atmosphere had spooked him and he decided to search the upper rooms instead.

He groped along the staircase, hearing a faint creak issue from each riser as he made his way up the stairs. When he reached the top landing, McMannon found that the upper hallway was submerged in total darkness. There were no windows at either end of the hall, so he decided to risk putting on a light. He withdrew a small, silver lighter from his overcoat and flicked it on. A yellow flame jumped to life casting a small circle of light. It was, however, just enough to allow him to find the switch. When he had at last turned on the house light, it gave off a sickly, ineffective yellow glow that barely lit the length of the hall. There were five doors set into the walls; two along each wall and one at the opposite end of the hall. He opened the first door on his right and found it to be empty. He crossed the hall and found this room to be full of broken furniture and empty boxes.

When he opened the door to the third room, he immediately noticed the smell and saw the dark patch on the far wall. He switched on the light and let out a horrified groan. The wall and a portion of the floor were covered with drying blood. Though the light was poor, he was still able to see the small gray lumps which were mixed with the drying blood. A chalk outline indicated where the owner of that gore had fallen for the final time. McMannon first feared that the chalk outlined the spot where Darleen had been killed, but further examination revealed that the outline was at least six feet in length. He breathed a sigh of relief and backed out of the room; still clinging to the hope that Darleen had somehow been spared.

He crossed to the room on the opposite side of the hall. This one, like the first that he had entered, was barren. He paused at the final door, wondering if he really cared to discover what lay behind it. Wanting to turn away, but knowing that he could not, he opened it and switched on the light. It was the bathroom. There was a small sink, a rusty toilet that ran incessantly and a large claw foot bathtub. The same smell that had pervaded the air of the bedroom came to his nostrils, but it was augmented by the high humidity and the warmth which hung in the air like a mist. The light revealed the truth of the matter. The light showed him something that punctured his heart and killed his faith. The tub was empty, but rimmed with crimson. His imagination filled in the missing pieces. He looked away from the spectacle of self destruction and his eyes found the mirror. He saw the immensity of his failure emblazoned upon the mirror in red lipstick: I listened but I could not hear, Father.

He began to weep as the last embers of his dying faith were extinguished deep within his soul. Just then, a hand fell on his shoulder and he screamed. He was spun around to find a bright light shining into his face, blinding him.

"What are you doing here?" a voice demanded. The light fell on the Roman Collar. "Oh I'm sorry Father, but what are you doing here. This house has been declared off limits."

"What has happened here?" McMannon heard himself ask thickly.

"Father, do you know these people?" the policeman asked, evading the priest's question.

"The girl came to me for help. She was supposed to come back today, but she never did. I stopped by to see what had happened," he replied distantly. "Please tell me what went on here tonight."

The policeman hesitated for a moment, but the Father wore a look of desperation that conveyed a need to know. "As best as we can tell, the girl sat in a bath of hot water and then slit her wrists. The father must have discovered her and shot himself with a twelve gauge shotgun. The ME's preliminary examination of the girl's body revealed that she had been raped and beaten just prior to her suicide."

Father McMannon made no reply. He turned and shuffled out of the house, into the blustery night. In the days and weeks that followed Darleen Mortanson's death, he fell into a torpor that reduced him to near uselessness. Eventually, he emerged from this malaise with a new, jaded attitude. He had quit the Church league guidance program and retired to his sedate, upper middle class parish. The blinders had been removed from his eyes and he would never again be the agent of deception for anyone in serious need of help. He had become a symbol and nothing more. His parishioners wanted him to tell them that they were basically moral and sound people, who were bound for heaven. He had complied, with total apathy to his larceny. He was a hollow symbol, but at least he was a reassuring one. He finished his tea and saw that it was time for vespers. He rose wearily and made his way across the courtyard, to his church.

4

As he entered his Church this Saturday night, he noticed two differences about the typical Saturday night mass. On a normal Saturday, those in attendance were usually subdued, but tonight's group seemed rather boisterous and his entrance had gone unnoticed. The second thing that caught his attention was the presence of a new worshipper. He noticed her for two reasons; firstly, because he knew his regulars on a first name basis and he had never seen this lady before, secondly and probably more to the point, she was astoundingly beautiful. She was a tall, dark haired woman, with large brown eyes, who wore a figure-flattering but conservative waist coat and skirt. As he watched her, captivated in spite of himself, she took a seat in the very back pew. She looked directly at him and smiled engagingly. He returned her smile, thinking that it would be pleasant to make her acquaintance. The parishioners had begun to settle down, seeing that the service was about to begin.

Father McMannon kissed his stole and placed it over his shoulders. He then laid his notes out on the pulpit. It occurred to him that it was quite warm in the Church tonight. He could feel droplets of sweat beginning to form on the small of his back. He glanced down at his written pages. The words there seemed to swim in and out of focus and he began to suspect that he might be coming down with a virus. He redoubled his efforts to concentrate, to gather himself. When he felt ready, he began his sermon.

"We have been visited by the blackness. It has descended upon us like a plague, testing our resolve and our faith," he began. God, was he hot. He could feel rivers of perspiration forming on his brow. Soon the salty sweat would flow into his eyes, stinging him as he spoke. He longed to wipe it away with the sleeve of his cassock. "The miscreant comes to us in many forms; the temptress, the defiler or the murderer. Why does he come? What is his purpose? To reap what souls he can, yes, but there is much more, so much more than this. He is insidious. He is here to dishearten us, to rob us of our faith. Once our faith has been compromised, we are at the mercy of his machinations. Faith is our greatest weapon against Satan. It constructs a wall around our souls, through which no evil may penetrate... unless we allow it to."

In his own mind, his words had never echoed so false or so hypocritical. He preached about the need to sustain one's faith in the face of pain and tribulation. His gaze happened upon Mrs. and Mr. Cooper, who were long-time members of the congregation. Viola was a pale shadow of her former self. Telling her that she should retain her faith in God's infinite mercy...in light of what had befallen her life...was more than just pathetic. It was deplorable. Nonetheless, he was a player and this was his stage, so the show must go on. "The blackness that has insinuated itself into our midst is just a new form of the ancient evil."

A thin line of perspiration had made its way into the corner of his left eye. It stung him and he tried to blink away the pain. He never saw who uttered the first words that led to the mayhem that followed. "Lies, all lies. You're nothing but a posturing peacock."

He opened his eyes, but could not pin point the high shrill voice which had come from the heart of the congregation. He scanned the crowd in search of the offender. His perusal of the crowd, revealed an assortment of oddities about this night's gathering. When he had first entered, he had noticed that the congregation was more animated than usual, but now he saw the true nature of their mood. On their faces he could see belligerence and contempt, not just for him because he was in truth contemptible, but for the very Church itself. He was astounded by the degree to which this display of irreverence angered him. "Your faith is your only weapon against the miscreant. Abandon that faith and you leave your soul open for the taking."

"Bullshit! Lies! Hypocrite!" The heckling cries came from different corners of the Church, but every time he turned to the source of the sound, he found nothing...only hostile bitter faces regarding him with undisguised enmity. He could sense the air in the Church thickening and he was struck by the smell of excrement, so high and foul that his insides began to heave. He fought to control his tortured stomach, feeling the overwhelming need to vomit. He looked down to see Jeremy Davis holding the sacred chalice. A demented smile cracked the altar boy's face, but never touched his eyes, which looked as lifeless as a dead carp's. The chalice was brewing with raw human excrement mixed with blood. The boy raised it closer to the priest's face. McMannon let out a disgusted cry and knocked the chalice from the boy's hands. It hit the carpeted floor with a muffled clatter, spilling the excrement onto the floor in a viscous wave. Somewhere in the crowd, someone cackled gleefully. The boy quickly retreated, scurrying into the shadows. He turned and looked back to McMannon. It must have been a trick of light, for his eyes gave off a metallic silver gleam.

"Hey, Father, fuck any good altar boys lately?" someone trumpeted, provoking a round of riotous laughter.

"Who dares to speak such blasphemy in the house of God?" McMannon roared.

"Fuck yourself, Shaman." someone retorted. The lighting in the Church seemed to have grown dim, for now portions of the main floor were obscured by shadows. They were all staring at him now. Some watched him wearing malicious smiles, while others regarded him with blazing hatred burning in their eyes. Despite their expressions of hatred and contempt, his eyes were drawn to a spectacle that was unfolding at the rear of his Church. All of the parishioners in the final two pews were engaging in an array of sex acts. In the midst of this carnal side show, the black haired beauty sat watching him...apparently rapt with attention and unmindful of the chaos around her. His vow of celibacy had not deprived him of his ability to appreciate feminine beauty. This woman was exquisite. As he studied her, a small yellow light flickered and sprang to life in the heart of her pupils. Slowly it expanded, radiating outwards until it covered the entire surface of both eyes. They burned with a stellar brilliance that caused him to blink. Then twin amber rays shot out towards him, freezing him as if in golden spotlights. A low voice fraught with great pain and wisdom challenged, "Where is the reason?"

He squinted into the wall of light and for a moment thought that he could see the true face of the woman. It leered at him from the shadows. "Come forward, profaner of the word. Come forward and show me your true face."

The capering demon made no response as Father McMannon waited expectantly. In those last seconds, just before he plunged into a world of utter madness, Jacob McMannon became a true priest once again. Armed with a zealous faith in the true God, he challenged the demon, "Come forward, Sycophant of the evil one. Declare yourself in sight of the Lord."

He had no sooner issued this challenge, than a huge, cracking roar filled the air. McMannon whirled around quickly and saw a network of spider web like cracks spreading over the statue of the crucified Jesus. The eyes of the statue seemed to have come alive with a consuming agony. McMannon could almost hear the tortured scream issuing from the lips of the Nazarene. Then the entire statue shattered in a burst of plaster and dust. McMannon shielded his eyes against the shrapnel. Someone laughed and a voice called out, "It would seem that your God has once again left you to your own devices, Father McMannon; a sacrificial lamb, no doubt."

McMannon could sense a distinct change in the atmosphere of the Church as if one force had abdicated its rule here in favor of another. This time he was determined not to back away from the challenge as he had done eight years ago. Undaunted by the evident desertion by his master, McMannon moved towards the pulpit stairs, intending to confront the demon alone. As he stepped onto the first riser, his foot slipped in the splattered excrement and he tumbled headlong down the stairs, where he landed heavily upon his shoulder. A sharp tugging sensation caused him to wince and cry out in pain. When the pain subsided, he groped to his feet, clutching the banister for support. The capering demon form had vanished as had the yellow spotlights. Now with his vision unimpaired by the harsh glare, he could see the full extent of the lunacy that had descended upon his Church.

His parishioners were all engaged in various acts of desecration and blasphemy. Miles Bygrave, a town councilor, was in the process of carving a phallus into one of the wooden pews. He looked up from his work and smiled. He looked away, only to see Viola Cooper kneeling over the body of her husband, Peter. Her mouth was open, revealing long curved incisors. With the speed of an adder, she dipped her head forward and plunged her teeth into Peter's exposed neck. He could clearly hear the sucking noises as she drank his life blood. As repugnant as this was, Father McMannon was most appalled by the rapturous expression upon Peter Cooper's face. _'My God, he's enjoying it,'_ McMannon's mind bellowed.

Again, his eyes were drawn to the back of the Church in search of the miscreant. There, he glimpsed the thing that finally broke the elastic fabric of his sanity. Sprawled on the final pew, Vernon Mortanson plunged in and out of his daughter, Darleen, who lay naked and sweaty on the polished wood of the bench. Her face was distorted by an intermingling of pain and pleasure. She began to cry out, beseechingly, "Jaysus, Oh Jaysus. Please, oh please faster, PLEASE!"

She writhed and screamed, locking her legs around his midriff, as he thrust in and out of her with total abandon. This is an illusion, his mind cried. They're dead. They're both dead.

"Well, why don't you banish them to hell, where they belong?" a raspy voice croaked in his ear. He could smell the sickly, sweet odor of garlic and something that reeked of spoiling meat. He turned to see the fat face of Mrs. Fiona Campden hovering over him. She hitched up her floral print dress and began to urinate copiously on the altar.

"Here, give them a good dose of holy water," she laughed, as the foul smelling liquid splashed onto the floor around him. He could tolerate no more. Seizing the large wooden crucifix, he advanced upon the despicable bitch, fully intending to batter the devil out of her.

5

From the earliest moments of the Saturday night sermon, many of the long-time parishioners sensed that something was wrong with Father McMannon. His usual fluid delivery seemed erratic and broken, as if he were being distracted by some unseen spirit. At several points in the course of his sermon, he would hesitate or stammer. At one point, he even came to a full halt in mid sentence and squinted at something in the back of the Church. Heads swiveled to see what that something might be, but everything looked to be in order.

Mrs. Fiona Campden, who simply adored the Irish priest, watched him stumble through his sermon with growing anxiety. She could distinctly hear him mutter angrily at regular intervals during the course of his sermon. As time went by, these pauses became more frequent and increasingly protracted. The sheen of perspiration upon his forehead was visible throughout the entire Church and his color alternated between violet and alabaster. A low buzz ran through the crowd as they watched McMannon degenerate.

The whole episode reached a climax when McMannon fixed Mrs. Campden with a scorching glare that caused her to recoil as if she had been slapped. He then seized the crucifix from its housing and charged down the altar steps, brandishing the holy symbol as if it were a baseball bat. Mrs. Campden was too paralyzed by shock to react, as were most of the parishioners in the immediate area. McMannon swung the cross in roundhouse fashion and landed a glancing blow on Mrs. Campden's shoulder. She clutched her wounded shoulder and started to whimper. To McMannon, she looked like an obese sheep, but he could feel no pity for her. He hefted the shaft above his head and brought it crashing down on the top of her skull. Her scalp ruptured with a spray of blood that splattered Fire Chief Michael Abel, who was attempting to scramble heroically out of range.

Milton Davis was one of the few present who did not panic at McMannon's initial onslaught. He sat and watched as people scrambled over each other, trying to get out of range. As McMannon was readying to deliver a third blow to the screaming Mrs. Campden, he launched himself forward, attempting to tackle the madman to the ground. As he hurled forward, McMannon pivoted and drove the end of the crucifix into Davis' abdomen. Milton's eyes popped open and his jaw dropped in a soundless scream, as he was impaled by the Holy Staff.

Endowed with a lunatic's strength, McMannon lifted Davis from his feet, holding him aloft as blood spewed out of his abdomen. It ran down the shaft, covering the priest's hands in a thick tide of crimson. Davis' weight was more than the wooden shaft could bear and it snapped, sending him twitching to the carpeted floor. When the jagged end of the shaft hit the floor, it was driven through the man's body, severing his backbone. Davis' body convulsed violently before it finally went still. McMannon paused briefly, regarding the fallen figure. Then he turned back to the congregation.

"Devil Spawn, prepare yourself for the wrath of God!" he bellowed. Mrs. Campden, despite being pain wracked and bloody, still had the presence of mind to try to crawl away from the flailing crucifix and the madman who wielded it. She had almost made it around the end of the first pew, but McMannon had not forgotten her. Grasping the shattered end of the crucifix, he grabbed a handful of blood soaked hair and began to throttle the fat woman with a series of hammering blows. The church had degenerated into absolute chaos as people screamed and ran in all directions. Gerald Camby calmly walked up to McMannon, who was too distracted to notice his approach, cocked his right fist and hit McMannon in the left temple. He staggered sideways and crumpled to the carpeted floor as if he had been shot. He tried to rise, but pitched forward, breaking his nose as he hit the floor.

In the back pew, Cynara Simonovic sat watching the bedlam that she had engineered the way that one would watch an amusing slapstick comedy. When McMannon had impaled Davis, it was all that Cynara could do to keep herself from laughing out loud. All around her, people were flocking towards the exits. Viola Cooper happened by, but did not stop to look at her son's murderer. When it became apparent that order was about to be restored, Cynara rose and strode from the Church. A ghost of a smile played at her sensuous lips as she walked down the stone steps and out into the cool September night. In the distance, the first screams of a police siren could be heard.

6

The night's casualty list stood at one dead, one in critical condition and three with multiple cuts and bruises. No reason could be found for McMannon's attack on his congregation. He was processed and charged with murder and attempted murder. Mathis had tried to question the priest, but found him to be in a catatonic state. He sat in his cell, with his knees drawn up to his chest, staring at the wall as if he expected the devil's of hell to come bursting through it at any moment. Mathis watched the man for a long while and then returned to his desk. He put his feet up and then gazed out of the window, into the inky blackness of the night sky. Rain pounded out a tattoo rhythm upon his window pane and he listened, hoping that it held some cryptic message that would solve the mysteries that beleaguered him. When Deputy Childress came in the next morning, he found Mathis in exactly this position. For a frightening moment, he feared that Mathis might be dead. Then the Sheriff stirred and looked directly into the deputy's eyes.

"There are no answers in the rain," he declared morosely. Mathis stood up and left a baffled Childress standing alone.

Chapter Two: Time Passes

1

"I'm sure that you will find it quite nice, Mr.?" Vera Avers promised.

"Freedman. Lewis Freedman," the man replied. Vera gave him a quick, uncertain glance. She withdrew the house key from her paisley dress as they climbed the stairs of the back house. She had received a phone call at nine o'clock this morning. The call was from a man who was inquiring about a house that she had listed for rent in the local newspaper. He requested a viewing later that day and she agreed.

She opened the door into a small, one bedroom, furnished apartment. He glanced quickly about and was satisfied that it would be more than adequate. He did not want to appear overly anxious, so he let her run through her sales pitch. "The house is fully furnished, with an efficient electrical heating system. All utilities, except telephone of course, are included in the rent. The rent is three hundred and fifty dollars a month."

"I see, and the neighborhood, is it relatively quiet?" Freedman asked.

"Yes, it's extremely quiet," she replied. He looked about the kitchen, the bedroom and the remainder of the house. As he did, Vera had the distinct impression that this man who had a keen eye for detail. His eyes seemed to fall on all of the little imperfections of the house. He paused to register these, but then moved on without comment. There was something vaguely disconcerting about Freedman's eyes. They were the pale blue of ice chips, and highlighted the frigidity that radiated from the man. Vera had been renting her small back house, here on Gordon Street, for over twenty years. In that time, she had never had serious difficulties with a tenant. She had always trusted her first impressions to guide her in granting occupancy. This man puzzled her, in fact he frightened her, but she could not specifically say why. Normally she would have asked him only what was absolutely required, however recent events, combined with the alien nature of the man, made her more cautious. "You're not from around here, are you Mr. Freedman."

He broke off his inspection of the bedroom and looked at her intently. For a moment, she thought that he was about to tell her that it was none of her business where he was from. Instead he replied, "No. I am not."

He accent was definitely foreign, but she could not attribute it to any one nationality. She was tempted to tell him that she would have to give the matter some consideration, but did not. She found that his face held a certain quality. At first glance he seemed threatening...yet upon further examination, the man's features hinted at great pain, of some tremendous burden or tribulation. Some intuition told her that this man's presence was a good thing, a reassuring thing. "Mr. Freedman, if you find this place acceptable, then it is yours."

"It will do rather well, thank you," he smiled. She found his smile quite warm and surprisingly disarming. "When would you care to move in?"

"I would like to move in immediately, if it isn't a problem. It's a simple matter of taking a few cases from my car."

"I see no problem with that, Mr. Freedman," she said. They walked back out into the afternoon sunshine. When they had reached the walkway to the first house, she turned off. At the bottom of the porch stairs, she turned and called. "Mr. Freedman, if there is anything that you require, I'm usually here. If I am not, then just leave a note upon my door and I will get back to you as soon as possible."

"Thank You," Neghev replied with a wave. She seemed to want to say something more, but decided against it. She turned abruptly, walked across the porch and into her house. Neghev walked down the asphalt drive, over to where he had parked his rented Mercury Cougar. He opened the trunk and retrieved his two suit cases and a Semelar Post Newspaper, which he had picked up earlier that morning. He carried the two cases back to his new home with the folded paper tucked under his arm. He sat the larger suitcase onto the kitchen floor and placed the brief case on the table. The case was an expensive brown leather model, with an inset combination lock. He dialed the combination and upon hearing the tumblers click, lifted the lid. He reached into the case and drew out a nine millimeter Beretta semiautomatic pistol that he had purchased in his two days in Los Angeles. He had paid a small fortune to have the gun fitted with a laser sighting. He lifted the gun and held it at arm's length. He liked its weight. It felt like a highly efficient killing instrument.

He had selected this gun to be the assassination weapon. If he found that is what the situation required, his mind added. He screwed the silencer onto the front of the Beretta, raised it once again and pulled the trigger three times. Its report was a muffled click, only a pale imitation of what it would have been had it carried a live load. He replaced the gun in its case and relocked the lid. He was quite pleased with his chosen weapon. He had killed a man to obtain it, but felt absolutely no remorse over the deed.

Neghev had spent his first day, and half of the second, trying to find an illegal arms dealer in Los Angeles. He had finally found one in east LA The dealer was a rake thin man, who had promised Neghev that he could deliver whatever type of weapon that he required short of a Cruise Missile. The man's name was Juan Alvarez. At first sight, Neghev had determined that the Hispanic was unscrupulous and unpredictable. Under normal circumstances, Neghev would have ignored the man and went in search of a more stable black marketeer. Since he had left Rome, Neghev had been plagued by the feeling that he was running a desperate foot race and was far behind. Thus, against his better judgment, he had agreed to do business with Alvarez.

The two men had met in a deserted underground parking lot at three o'clock Sunday morning. In the dark night, in an unfamiliar city, Neghev felt vulnerable without a gun. After a twenty minute wait, Alvarez stepped out of the shadows. Walking with a swagger and wearing a look of brash confidence, he had asked, "Are you ready to do business, Gringo?"

Neghev ran his fingers along the hem of his sports jacket, where he felt the comfortable outline of his stiletto. He expected some type of violence from the other man. It was in the other man's every move. Neghev had encountered plenty of these men; men who were easily incited to violence. This type would kill a business partner for only a slightly bigger share of the profits. The money was secondary to the love of the taking of another life. Murder was a drug that such men could not resist. "Yes, I am ready to do business."

The other man reached into his case and drew out the Beretta, holding it up for Neghev to see. The barrel gleamed its sinister smile in the dimly lit parking lot. Neghev nodded his approval. "May I see it?"

"Not until I see your green, Gringo," Alvarez prodded.

Neghev reached into his coat's mickey pocket and withdrew an envelope. He opened the envelope and fanned out twenty five one hundred dollar bills. Alvarez smiled and his eyes flashed an expression of naked greed that Neghev recognized so well. It was amazing, he marveled, how a man could come seven thousand miles, to the heart of a totally different culture, and still find the same base lust and greed.

"Bring the money here," Alvarez ordered, the casual tone gone from his voice. Neghev did, unsnapping the hem of his sports jacket and letting the stiletto fall into his palm as he went. When he had come within five paces of the dealer, Alvarez raised the Beretta and pointed it directly at Neghev's head.

"The money, Gringo," he snarled. Neghev feigned terror and extended the envelope towards Alvarez. As the Hispanic reached for the envelope, he lowered the Beretta ever so slightly. In his arrogance, he had discounted Neghev as anything but a frightened white gringo, who had stepped way out of his league. With a taunting grin, he said, "Welcome to America Gringo."

His hand had only grasped the envelope, when Neghev seized his wrist and brought the stiletto flashing up with blinding speed. It punctured Alvarez's wrist and continued through and out the other side. His body was wracked by a spasm of pain which caused him to depress the Beretta's trigger. The report was thunderous in the echo chamber of the parking lot. It missed Neghev's left leg by no more than an inch. He could actually feel the bullet go by, as it cut the air like a scythe. Alvarez gripped his wrist and commenced dancing a jig of agony as blood began to pour from the wound like water from a facet. Neghev pistoned his foot into the other man's groin and he collapsed to the concrete, wailing like a wounded animal. He rolled onto his side and vomited. As he did, Neghev retrieved the gun and stood over the fallen arms dealer. He aimed the gun at his head and pulled the trigger twice. The Hispanic's head exploded like a pulverized grapefruit. The Israeli then bent down and drew the stiletto out of the dead man's wrist, wiping the blade on his gore spattered shirt. Then, after gathering up his money and the Beretta case, calmly walked away.

Now, sitting at his kitchen table, Neghev felt no compassion for the dead man. In his mind, betrayal was the blackest offence for which only one punishment was suitable: death. He felt no desire to play by a different set of rules just because he had changed venues.

He pushed the case to the opposite end of the table and spread the paper out before him. He scanned the headlines and found that they had chronicled just how bad things had gotten in Semelar. In the span of two weeks, four people had been brutally murdered in separate incidents and one man had committed suicide. Neghev found the details of the murders unsettling. Each had been incredibly brutal. The first had involved dismemberment after death and as far as Neghev could discern from the newspaper accounts, the authorities didn't seem to have any leads. The other two deaths were the result of unprovoked attacks by relatively stable people, one of these being a priest. The suicide victim was one Ernie Simms, who had killed his wife and attempted to kill his son.

One of Neghev's greatest strengths was his ability to analyze situations and salient realities which governed those situations. He tried to apply this approach to this situation. He withdrew a small notebook from his breast pocket and for the next hour and a half, listed and categorized the details contained in the newspaper articles. When he had concluded his summary, Neghev found that he had gained precious little. There was no visible link between the first two murders and the second set. Neghev could only conclude that, if Cynara was responsible, she was not alone in this, but had found others to do her dirty work. Was Fabrizzi right he wondered? Could this woman possibly be responsible for this butchery? If so, how had she managed to engineer this twisted scenario? Her presence had corresponded again and again to a series of brutal murders and once she had left the violence ceased. This last fact was more incriminating than the first which could be attributed to coincidence. If she was the director of this rolling horror story, then Neghev would be forced to concede that she was a true evil genius. To orchestrate at least six separate reigns of terror and to arouse no suspicion was truly insidious. Could she possibly be the one? Neghev did not know. Fabrizzi claimed that he did, but Neghev could not share that conviction. He was not an assassin and had never killed a man who had not deserved to die. He could not kill this woman until he was certain that she was the murderess. He felt like a man afloat in a sea of ignorance. He knew only one thing...Cynara Simonovic was here in Semelar and the killings had begun. If he determined she was the killer, he would remove her and hopefully repay a long overdue debt.

2

"Please David, please, another horsy ride," Nathaniel implored happily. David Stillman settled back into the Davenport in Elizabeth Simpson's living room. He took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, as Nath clamored for another ride around the room. For the better part of forty minutes, Nath had put David through his paces. As he plopped down on the sofa, Stillman was forced to concede that the boy had gotten the better of him.

Elizabeth sat with her coffee in hand, and watched the two cavort across her floor as if they had been life long pals. In fact, they had met for the first time only three and a half hours before. Watching them play, she felt a strange blend of happiness and disappointment; happiness because the two had hit it off so well and disappointment because, in her heart, she was convinced that Nathaniel should have been David's son. Her heart bled for Nathaniel, because he had been denied the male influence that every boy needed. Dan had been essentially a non-father. She doubted if he missed or even thought about Nathaniel. He had always viewed the boy as an unwanted burden. Watching the two together, she could discern the potential for a strong bonding between the pair. "Alright little man, I think that you've just about played David out. Besides that, it's well past your bedtime."

"Oh mom, just one more ride," Nathaniel cried, without much hope or conviction.

"There will be plenty of horsy riding days." she said and then gave Stillman a quick glance, seeking agreement.

"That's right, Nath. I'll come by and be your horsy anytime that you want," David reassured the boy with a warm smile.

"Okay," Nathaniel said, as if he were grudgingly agreeing to perform some terrible task.

"Okay, give mommy a hug and a kiss and then we'll get you into bed," Elizabeth said. Nath got off the sofa and ran over to his mother, who swept him up in her arms and spun him around in rapid circles, lavishing him with hugs and kisses. She set him back on his feet and began to lead him towards the bedroom. Nathaniel, all at once, pulled away from his mother and ran back to where David sat. He hopped up on the sofa beside the startled David, and throwing his arms about the man's neck, kissed his cheek.

"Good night, Uncle David," he exclaimed affectionately. He climbed down and ran back to his waiting mother. David looked at Elizabeth, who stood watching him. He could see by the wetness of her eyes that she was on the verge of tears. She dropped her head, attempting to choke back the tears that threatened to overwhelm her.

"Come along little man," she whispered huskily. The two disappeared into the rear bedrooms. She returned five minutes later, dry eyed and smiling her usual placid smile. She sat on the sofa beside him and folded her hands on her lap. David felt himself wanting to take her in his arms. He had felt that urge burgeoning over the last four days and it was quickly becoming irresistible. She caught his glance and read it at once. Since the night of his altercation with Simms, the two had been drawn together by an inexorable magnetic pull. "I'm so glad that you and Nath have hit it off so well. He needs a man in his life, someone who can give him the male perspective on things. I've done what I could, but I'm always afraid that it will never be enough."

"It hasn't been easy has it? I mean trying to raise a son alone," David asked softly.

She looked into the middle distance as if she were gazing through time's window. "No it hasn't, but I've grown and learned a lot, about myself and the world around me. I don't feel as vulnerable as I once did. I'm more secure with myself, with being myself."

"I can see that, Liz," he said. Her eyes glowed in the room's subdued light. She had never seemed more alluring, more ethereal. She wore a black knit sweater and forest green slacks, both of which served to emphasize the perfection of her form. He took a deep breath, trying to get a reign on his racing pulse.

She gripped his hand tightly in hers and pulled him closer. Her eyes blazed in bluish green splendor. "Can you also see that I'm tired of keeping my heart on a shelf? Can you see that I need more in my life than just a career? I want to be complete David and for the past three years, I've kept my heart frozen to avoid getting hurt again."

With this she stood and holding his good forearm, gently but insistently hauled him to his feet. Wordlessly, she led him to her bedroom. His heartbeat picked up its pace as the adrenalin of anticipation began to course through his veins. They crossed the threshold of her room and his mind was drawn back to the first time that they had made love. Both were virgins and the entire act had been an exploration; a discovery of both each other and themselves. Back then she was a girl and now she was an exquisitely beautiful and incredibly intimidating woman. Stillman felt a twinge of awkwardness and self-doubt as though time had doubled back upon him.

She directed him to the edge of her double bed that sported a feminine spread that was fringed with white lace. "Stand here, David, and don't even think about moving. Close your eyes and think about what's going to happen next."

Her voice had become sultry and teasing. Turning, she wisped through a door that connected her bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. Time passed slowly and David could feel his passion start to swell in anticipation of her return. Eventually she emerged from the bathroom and when he saw her, David gasped. "I must warn you," she breathed saucily, "You're being seduced."

He drank in her beauty, letting it flow through him like a fine wine. She had discarded the conservative slacks and sweater in favor of a white silk nightshirt, and French cut silk panties. The nightshirt was unbuttoned to expose a wealth of deep, inviting cleavage. David could clearly see her nipples protruding through the thin veil of silk. He glanced longingly at her flat stomach and then down her firm, curving thighs. She crossed over to where he stood and as she did the muscles in her thighs danced hypnotically.

"God you're beautiful," he murmured hoarsely. "I'd forgotten just how beautiful you are."

She placed a long index finger on his lips. "Shhh."

Elizabeth nimbly undid his shirt, each button coming free with deliberate slowness. She then slid the shirt from his shoulders, pushing it slowly over his chest, and let it fall to the floor. She gazed into his eyes the entire time, the hint of a smile playing across her lips. She placed a hand upon his left shoulder. Her touch was subtle and gentle, yet that feathery lightness aroused such exquisite sensations that he moaned softly. She knelt slowly, never taking her eyes from his face, as she ran the tips of her fingers over the contours of his chest causing him to gasp.

She undid his belt buckle and slid his pants down inch by inch. Sliding his shorts down and drawing the band tight, she teased the length of his penis, moving the band up and down, exciting it to its full length. She then commenced placing kisses over his thighs which had turned to granite. After a time, which seemed like an eternity to David, Elizabeth rose to her feet, drawing a finger along the underside of his penis as she did. He closed his eyes and shuddered visibly in response.

Without touching him with any other part of her body, Elizabeth bent forward and tenderly kissed his lips. "Tonight, I'm going to awaken the passion we once had. I want my body to reacquaint itself with your touch. There is only one thing that I need to know...do you still love me David?"

"Yes, Liz. I've never loved anyone or anything more," he sighed in response. She said nothing, only smiled. She tantalized him by running her finger tips along his arms, over his shoulders and across his abdomen. She then placed the flats of her palms on either of his shoulders and pushed him back towards the bed. Laying him out on the bed and taking both of his wrists in hand, she spread his arms above his head. She traced the insides of his biceps and forearms with her index finger, grinning as his muscles jumped in the wake of its passing. "I'm going to make love to you David."

She stood and shed the white shirt. He watched, entranced, as it floated to the floor like a leaf. Her large breasts were peaked by delicate pink nipples which stood proudly. She turned to the side and arched her back, allowing him to admire their perfection. His palms were red hot and he clasped and unclasped his hands as her elaborate seduction drove him to distraction. She turned her back to him and slipped her panties along her legs. Her buttocks were perfectly sculpted. They swelled and then tapered to meet her thighs. His desire was growing, expanding in rapid bursts of heat and light, filling him with an undeniable need to feel the reality of the vision before him. She jutted her chin forward and raised it, turning her head to one side. He could see the outline of those high arrogant cheekbones, accentuated by the room's shadows.

"Tell me that you want me," she prompted.

"I want you, I want you Elizabeth," he said airily.

She turned and moved across the carpeted floor. Placing one knee on the bed, she glided over to him with the grace of a panther. She was flawless. Her large breasts swayed as she moved over to David, who literally shook with desire.

"You are not to touch me unless I give you specific permission," she intoned sternly. Bending forward and kissing his ear, she nibbled the lobe with studied concentration. She kissed his shoulders, gradually making her way down to his feet. Elizabeth snaked her tongue between each toe, privately delighted as he squirmed and sighed beneath her. Stillman had receded far beyond the limits of all self control, until his entire being was reduced to the awareness of the sensations bombarding his nerve endings. His penis was swollen and distended, aching for the magic of her touch. She, for her part, knelt for a moment regarding his manhood. She could feel the warmth emanating through her and had to fight the urge to give in to it and take him. She wanted to prolong the moment, to draw it out, to raise the passion to a dizzying frenzy. She clasped his penis in her palms, marveling at the way that it pulsed. She then positioned herself above him and laid full length on his body; her thighs against his, her abdomen flat to his and her full, aching breasts against his chest. She could feel the lustful insistence of his penis as it pushed against her belly. She kissed him and he opened his mouth. Their tongues waltzed, probing each other's depths. She then pushed herself back into a sitting position and lowered herself slowly onto his penis, encircling him with her sweet warmth. She had not made love in two years and this first contact unleashed a jolt of electricity that forced her to cry out softly. She moved up again and he groaned softly in frustration. Elizabeth wanted, with a small degree of torment, to show him what he had missed and to insure that he would never leave her again. She had envisioned this seduction on many a long lonely night, but its reality was sweeter than the dream had ever been.

She lowered herself until he was completely hers and then she lay forward, cupping her right breast and offering it to him. He took it hungrily, licking and sucking with complete abandon as if he were a hungry child.

She began to move, creating a delicious friction that was part ecstasy and part torture for both of them. The urgency of her movements grew until she became frenzied. After an eternity, she felt him tense beneath her and warmth spread deep inside of her. Only then did she allow herself to orgasm, shaking her being, her spirit and her very soul. She began kissing David fervently and each felt reborn in this carnal reunion that was so long overdue. Elizabeth allowed herself to become a complete woman again and David found his true place in a world that he had once thought empty and pointless. It was as if her touch had removed the blinders that he had been wearing for most of his life, freeing him to see some of the world's inherent beauty. They lay there for a time, content to be in each other's embrace, but their desire was far from satisfied, so as the moon made its way across the sky, David entered Elizabeth again. He began moving them along the road to physical and spiritual unity.

3

Tuesday morning dawned bright and sunny and as the end of the summer drew nearer, each day grew more precious. In the small Washington town of Semelar that late summer splendor seemed blackly inappropriate. Anita Perez sat at her desk going through Doctor Simonovic's memo list and appointment schedule. Anita was a twenty six year old Mexican American, who had been employed at the Semelar County Hospital for the past four years. Doctor Elderberg, her former boss, was a quiet, affable man, whom Anita had liked and respected a great deal. She was sad to see him leave. ' _Doctor Simonovic, now there was another bill of goods.'_ Anita thought. Though she couldn't say specifically why, there was something about Cynara Simonovic that was contradictory to the face she presented to the world. Speak of the devil and she will appear, for at that moment Dr. Simonovic came through the door. She wore a winter green cape and black leather boots. "Good morning Anita."

"Good morning, Doctor Simonovic," Anita replied cheerily, though she felt a pang of envy. The woman was undeniably beautiful in a way that seemed to challenge every woman around her. Anita had never seen a beauty that mocked and denigrated everything around it.

"Anita, there are some arrangements that I would like you to personally oversee this morning. I'm going to give a dinner party two Saturdays from now and I'd like the invitations to be delivered tomorrow. You are to select a courier for all of the invitations but one, which I would like you to deliver personally. Then I would like you to provide me with a list of local caterers and their specialties. Could I please have the work and appointment schedules for the day?"

Anita handed Cynara a sheaf of papers and the doctor in turn gave Anita her guest list. She had highlighted one of the names on the list. "That's the person that should have their invitation delivered personally."

Doctor Simonovic, work load in hand, smiled and strode into her office, closing the door behind her. Anita sat looking after her for some time. The doctor gave Anita concise instructions and she followed them to the letter. Their relationship was thoroughly impersonal and quite frankly, Anita had no desire to engage in anything beyond this. Something about Simonovic's aloofness seemed to conceal contempt for the people around her or perhaps something even stronger than contempt. Anita picked up the telephone and dialed the hospital courier, making the necessary arrangements for the invitation deliveries. She then consulted the yellow pages of the phone directory and composed a list of local caterers and their specialties. Finally, she pared the list down to five of the better local services.

Under normal circumstances, Anita would have been resentful of being ordered to perform an employer's personal errands, but she freely admitted to herself that Dr. Simonovic intimidated her both physically and intellectually. She would also have to admit that Simonovic was an excellent doctor as well as a highly efficient administrator. She had seen people enter the doctor's office appearing bleak and dispirited, only to emerge with a new light in their eyes. There were times when Anita thought she saw a gleam of hope in faces that had been bereft of that emotion for years. Still, there were other times when she would have sworn that each eye held the flame of something more elemental, more primitive.

Cynara spent hours with Anita, going over the hospital's budget and operating costs. She had been impressed with the Doctor's ability to grasp the salient elements of the hospital's budgetary problems. Cynara proposed a series of restraints and cuts that had caused only minimal disruption to the quality of the service provided. The Doctor possessed the all too rare ability to ask the pertinent questions and formulate solutions which would ameliorate the problems. There was another reason that Anita Perez did as she was asked and it had nothing to do with respect; something told Anita that Cynara Simonovic would not be a good person to irritate.

The telephone rang and Anita answered it on the second ring. "Good morning, Doctor Simonovic's office. May I help you?"

"Good morning, this is Melissa Danford. I'd like to speak to Doctor Simonovic if she is available."

"One moment please." Anita depressed the hold button and then rang through to the Doctor's office. The Doctor's voice came back. "Yes Anita?"

"Dr. Simonovic, I have a Melissa Danford on the line. Are you available to take her call?"

"Yes, Anita. Put her through please," A moment later the polished, professional voice of Melissa Danford filled Cynara's ear. "Good morning, Doctor. How are you this morning?"

"I'm quite well, thank you. How may I help you?"

Melissa was stung by the Doctor's tone, which was civil but cool. This woman seemed impervious to Melissa's best attempt at ingratiation. She insisted on coming directly to the point, wasting no time on superfluous banter. "Doctor, do you recall our conversation concerning a television program on criminal psychological profiles?"

"Yes Ms. Danford?" Cynara replied.

"Are you still willing to take part in such a program?"

"Yes, as was promised." Melissa detected a hint of irritation in the Doctor's voice.

"I have tentatively scheduled the program for Thursday morning, if that is convenient for you?"

"That would be fine, Ms. Danford."

"The actual program begins at twelve noon, but we would appreciate it if you could be available at ten thirty, for make-up session and the pre-program format discussion."

"I'll be available, but a make-up artist is quite unnecessary," Cynara replied with absolute self assurance. Melissa was momentarily nonplussed by the degree of arrogance this woman displayed. She began to harbor a strong dislike for her. If the opportunity presented itself, she would not hesitate to stick it to the overblown bitch. Melissa made a mental note to do some background research on the good Doctor. Despite her growing dislike, she couldn't afford to offend this woman, so she said nothing for the time being.

"Will there be anything else, Ms. Danford?"

"No that will be all. I greatly appreciate your cooperation Doctor," she concluded grandly.

"Good morning Ms. Danford," Cynara said abruptly and hung up, leaving Melissa to ponder the woman's strange nature.

For her part, Cynara replaced the receiver in its cradle, feeling more secure than she had in weeks. Her carefully orchestrated campaign of terror was having the desired effect. She had wished to create a backdrop of terror and chaos, behind which her machinations could proceed unhindered. The prize was nearly within her grasp and she would go to any lengths to see that she obtained it.

4

Murray Street on the eastern extremity of the Lowlands was submerged in twilight as the sun disappeared from the western sky. The street was composed of a series of semi detached houses, all in varying states of disrepair. To some extent, the houses were spiritual reflections of their inhabitants. 406 Murray was home for the Morland family. It was one of the better maintained properties on the street and the family within was probably one of the happiest. Harold Morland was a laborer at the Western Pulp and Paper mill and his wife, Maria, worked as a cashier at Brickford's Hardware Store. They had one son named Jacob. Their consuming ambition was to move up and out of the Lowlands within the next year. Both Maria and Harold were born in Semelar and both had languished their whole lives in the converted swamplands.

Besides their love for each other, they were linked by the common aspiration to rise above the squalor of this oppressive little wasteland. They had squirreled away nearly everything that they had made and were almost within reaching their goal. Maria looked forward to the day when they would actually begin house hunting. By their calculations, that day was now only six to eight months away. This new life stood before them like a beacon, driving them through the tribulations and set-backs.

On this Tuesday night, however, the focus of their world would be radically altered. Harold was working his Tuesday night overtime shift. He had worked two double shifts every week for the past six years. The extra income went directly into the Morland's saving account that would someday provide them with the means to leap out of the Lowlands. Jacob asked his mother if he could play outside for an extra fifteen minutes. Yes, she said, as long as he promised not to leave the backyard.

The backyard of the Morland property was a well maintained section of cropped grass that was surrounded by a six foot high slat fence that Harold took great pains to keep in prime condition. He white washed it religiously every six months. He viewed it as a symbolic distinction between himself and the rest of the Lowlands; a sort of a barrier against the cancerous apathy of surrender which was consuming everything around them. As Jacob walked into the backyard, deep shadows formed along the fence, furtively spreading to engulf the entire yard. He zipped up his jacket against the chill that had accompanied the descending darkness. He loped down the steps and walked toward the back fence, wondering what he was going to do with his extra play time.

Jacob strode idly around the yard, following the fence, when he heard a muffled thump from behind him. He spun around to see a metallic silver ball sitting in the center of his sand pile near the far corner of the yard. The ball twinkled like a star in the gloom. It seemed to wink at him, to call to him. He made no move towards it, however. He expected someone to appear over the top of the fence, wanting to reclaim it. Minutes went by, or so it seemed, and nobody showed to lay claim to the beautiful sphere that had now began to pulse in his sandbox. His heart began to beat a little faster. Maybe, seeing as no one had come for it, it didn't belong to anyone and since it had landed in his sandbox, well that made it his, didn't it?

He looked towards the house, where he could see his mother. She was bent over the sink, scrubbing the dishes with the kind of zeal she applied to everything. For some strange reason, the house seemed to be a great ways off from where he stood against the back fence. It seemed as if he were separated from the house by more than just space and distance. He looked back at the ball and then took a tentative step towards it. The darkness thickened around him, until the only thing to focus on was the ball. Somewhere in his head a warning alarm began to sound, but he felt the irresistible urge to have that ball...to possess it and keep it all to himself.

He knelt down before it, with his palms on his thighs. It was the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen and up this close, it was simply magnificent. The surface caught and reflected light like a mirror. In fact, he could even see his own reflection. His eyes were popped open and they burned with a complex, alien desire which he did not fully understand. Suddenly, the silver orb turned completely black. The ball had gone as black as coal, but it still retained its brilliant luster. Though Jacob had been startled, he did not feel threatened by the strange sphere. He came forward again and peered into the ball. His gaze penetrated the surface to a point in the centre where a faint green light had flickered into life. The small green light grew in size and magnitude, until it resembled a quarter and glowed like an emerald.

He had seen a television program once, a science program where they explained how three dimensional images called Holograms were created and realized that this thing now resembled one of those three dimensional pictures. The dot of green light erupted into a staccato series of lightning bursts that flashed from the centre of the sphere to its edges and then along its curved surface. As he watched the glorious storm rage within the orb, he could barely resist the urge to cradle it to his chest. It was then that the magic ball spoke to him.

"Hi Jacob," it whispered.

He blinked and looked about him as if he could not accept what his ears had just told him. Then he looked directly into the ball. Now the single green dot had given way to twin amber circles that resembled eyes. Jacob was young and imaginative and not restricted by rigid prejudices or conceptions of how the world was meant to be. Where an adult would have been sent into a fit of the screaming horrors by the talking wonder, Jacob merely recorded its existence and designated it a place in his universe. Of course it was real. He was seeing it with his own eyes, wasn't he? It was so beautiful. How could anything so beautiful be threatening? Jacob felt elated, as if he had stumbled upon a lost treasure.

"Did you speak?" he whispered hopefully.

The amber lights flickered and pulsed and then it said, "Of course I did."

The voice seemed to have a feminine quality and Jacob found it to be hauntingly familiar. It flashed and inquired teasingly, "Do you like me?"

He merely nodded his head. This was surely the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen. "Then go ahead and hold me."

His fingers trembled but he needed no further invitation. He laid his palms along its curved surface and lifted it into the air, high above his head. It felt pleasingly warm to the touch. Jacob could feel a sudden surge of warmth flow through his hands and then his body. Every nerve quivered as the orb radiated its power through the boy. Mrs. Morland looked up from her dishes and saw Jacob sitting quite alone, in the center of his sandbox. He was holding his hands above his head, about a foot apart, as if he were studying a globe or gazing into a crystal ball. For some reason this last analogy made her feel vaguely uneasy, but she dismissed this as nonsensical. She smiled as she watched the boy. Children always seemed to find ways to amuse themselves. Unlike adults, they could escape into whatever fantasy world beckoned them. She looked at the clock and decided to allow him another five minutes to play. She looked back to her son and then resumed her war against the dirty dishes. It was the last time that she would ever see her son.

As Jacob held the orb, he had the unshakable impression that there was blackness lurking at the orb's centre, there in the darkness. He tried to peer into the depths, but found it to be as thick as oil and could see nothing beyond the amber eyes. "There are worlds within the depths, Jacob, beautiful worlds; wonders and a kingdom just waiting for you. Would you like to see those wonders?"

"Yes." he whispered. The voice, the amber lights, they seemed to mesmerize him. Something this splendid could hold wonders beyond his wildest dreams. The amber shifted back to the single green dots which exploded, giving off clouds of green gas. On the face of each cloud there took shape some beautiful image or some fantastic place. Jacob had never seen anything of the like in any of his books. No sooner would one image form when an explosion would blast it apart, replacing it with a new and even more spectacular picture. "I can make these things yours for the taking. Now you can only see them, but if you wish, you can experience them for real."

The next image decided the issue. It spread out into a beautiful golden and green vista of sunshine and an endless series of hilly fields. There, he could see his parents descending a long slope. Each wore a broad smile and they appeared happy just to be together in this place. This was so unlike their usual demeanor which was harried and tense. On these green plains they looked contented and he fancied contentment to be an exalted state. He wanted desperately to join them, to feel that satisfaction. "Yes, I want it." he whispered. "Please I want to be there."

"Then you shall." came the voice from the depths. The vista vanished to be replaced by the amber eyes. The familiar voice whispered, "Come closer."

Jacob bent nearer, as instructed, and then caught a faint trace of some horrible smell. He wrinkled his nose and was about to pull back, when a hand reached out of the sphere and sank its fingers into his small throat. Its grip was vice-like and it crushed his larynx with a casual flex of its muscles. He tried to release the sphere but his hands would not respond, as if they had been struck by an electrically induced tetanus. He was jerked off of his feet and through the surface of the sphere which turned out to be like a membrane. He looked about, eyes bulging with terror, and understood at once that he was inside of the sphere. Now he saw the truth and that truth was so terrible that it caused his heart to burst from fright. He could see the cracked, reptilian skin with its open festering sores. Worst of all, he could see the sharp, curving incisors that loomed out of the darkness. In the seconds before those incisors struck, the boy's heart exploded in an act of cold mercy. The urge to tear and rip was undeniable and the beast waded forward anyway.

Mrs. Morland had finished her dishes and set the dish cloth on the counter. When she looked out of the kitchen window, she could see not a sign of Jacob. She went to the kitchen door, stepped out onto the back porch and froze. Jacob was nowhere to be seen. Frantically, she called his name over and over again, but she realized that there was no one in the back yard to respond to her call. Worst of all, the gate was still locked...from the inside. The Morland's dream had fast become a nightmare.

Chapter Three: News of the World Pt. 2

1

The next two days were a preview of the fate the Semelar was soon to suffer. A thorough search of the area yielded no clue as to what may have happened to Jacob Morland. Avery Mathis privately harbored little hope for ever finding the boy alive. The following night two more people disappeared. Fifty nine year old Maureen Vance left her friend, Norma Bertrand's house at nine o'clock. She lived only a half of a block away and her husband was expecting her back for ten. When she still hadn't returned by ten thirty, he called Norma's and asked if he could speak to his wife.

"She left for home well over an hour ago, Martin," Norma replied, growing anxious and concerned very rapidly. Martin quickly hung up and went out in search of his wife. He had been married to Maureen for forty two years and he had the sinking feeling that his entire life was in dire jeopardy. He quickly covered the ground between the two houses, but could find no sign of Maureen's passing. Then he back tracked, retracing his steps, searching behind every hedge and fence. Two houses from down, he came across a silk scarf with gold and interwoven silver threading. It had been Maureen's favorite and she had been wearing it when she had left for Norma's. Fearing the worst, he could feel his own life force ebbing as he trudged back to the house to call the police.

The next disappearance took place on Milford Drive, in the northwest quarter of Semelar. Roberta Grey had been reading in bed when the horror first announced its poisonous presence. Her husband was Peter Grey, the vice president of Western Pulp and Paper. That night he was away on a business trip to Seattle. She was beginning to feel drowsy and was contemplating setting her book aside and going to sleep when a scream startled her, causing her book to tumble to the floor. _'Jesus, not a burglary,'_ she thought, as she raced to see what had alarmed her daughter. She rushed down the hall, threw open the door and turned on the lights to find her daughter, Margaret, cuddling her bear with the blankets pulled up around the two of them like some protective amour. Her daughter's eyes bulged and tears streamed like two rivers as they ran down her face. Even from across the room, Mrs. Grey could see that Margaret was trembling uncontrollably.

"Margaret, what's wrong?" she asked, alarmed by the extent of the girl's terror.

"It's here, Momma. I've heard it. Please don't let it get me. Please Momma." Her small voice was fraught with fear and desperation.

"What's here, Margaret?" Roberta asked, trying to calm the girl with her gentle, placating tone. Her daughter's fear was huge. It radiated off of her in palpable waves. "The spider, Momma; It's moving around...it...it touched me."

She could say no more, only cry louder as if her revulsion exceeded her ability to express in words. The mention of the word spider made the entire situation clear to Roberta, and she experienced a flood of relief followed by a twinge of exasperation. A week earlier, she had purchased a Little Miss Muffet story book and brought it home for her four year old daughter. It didn't take long to see that this was a horrible mistake. As Margaret had flipped through the book's pages, she grew increasingly terrified of the spider. Finally, she had cast the book aside, declaring that she never wanted to see it again. Every night before going to bed, Margaret made her mother check the room for spiders. She complied, hoping to allay the girl's fear, but as time passed, the girl became even more frightened of the eight legged creatures; claiming to see them everywhere.

"Margaret, there are no spiders in this bedroom. I'm going to search this room and then you are going to go to sleep and that will be the last that we will hear about spiders, Alright?"

"Alright, Momma." the girl replied tentatively. Roberta moved around the room, opening closet doors and peering under the dressers and the bed. At last she said, "See Margaret, there are no spiders, now be a darling and go to sleep."

She crossed over to the bed and pulled the covers up around her daughter' chin, feeling some of the tension slip from her own body with great affection, she whispered "Good night, sweetheart."

"Good night, Momma," the girl replied, appearing to be reassured by her mother's search. Roberta closed the light, then the door and padded back to her own room. She resumed reading for an hour and then decided to go to sleep. Before turning out the light, she swung her legs out of bed and went back to her daughter's room to check on her one last time. Upon opening the door, Roberta was surprised to feel how cold the room had become. Through the gloom she could see that the window had been thrown wide open.

Panic bit at her insides then and she could taste the hot, bilious fear rising in her throat. Switching on the light confirmed her worst fear; Margaret was gone. She ran to the window and peered out at the field behind her house, but could see nothing. She then turned and headed out of the room, intending to call the Sheriff's Department. She never noticed the thin, nearly invisible, threads that were spread over her daughter's bed; strands that resembled those of a common spider's web.

2

It was late Thursday morning and the Channel Twelve floor crew was busy going through their final preparations for the day's Semelar at Noon program. The set of the program was typical of such shows, sporting the obligatory array of potted plants, the wooden desk and a series of plush chairs which were reserved for the guests of the day. Normally, the program dealt with community related activities or provided a platform for the various Semelar charity organizations. On this day, the program was to present a psychiatric assessment of a 'psychotic killer'.

The host and the guest assumed their positions and now sat waiting the director's cue to indicate the start of the program. Melissa Danford sat in her familiar position behind the interviewing desk and pretended to read the program notes, while stealing furtive glances at Doctor Cynara Simonovic, who occupied the guest chair to her right. Melissa thought Simonovic might well have been the most intriguing woman she had ever known.

The first thing that had struck Melissa was the other woman's beauty, which was simply breathtaking. ' _Bitch_!' she muttered under her breath, as she extended a hand to the other woman, who towered seven inches above her.

"I heard that!" a voice thundered in her mind, so loud that Melissa's head actually hurt. Then the pain and the voice had been gone, leaving Melissa feeling a little dazed and weak. As the morning went on, Melissa concluded that Simonovic was the embodiment of the fabled feminine mystique. It was impossible, for instance, to put a finger on the Doctor's age. Melissa's research had revealed that she was thirty six, but she looked to be no older than twenty-five. It was evident that Cynara Simonovic was an extremely intelligent and well informed woman, who would not be intimidated by any kind of journalistic bullying.

Melissa had researched the Doctor's background and had found her to be a woman worthy of respect and admiration...the type who could serve as a role model for today's new breed of woman. Cynara was a Harvard graduate and a highly regarded, published psychiatrist. Cynara stood as a testimony of the heights to which the modern woman could ascend.

"Alright Melissa, thirty seconds to air time," the floor director said. She watched the electronic director's board count down the time, feeling the excitement building within her. This was the first step along the road to national recognition and as she watched the timer tick, she visualized that someday she would be sitting behind the anchor desk of a national news program. The board reached zero and the red light upon camera one came on. Melissa Danford looked directly into the camera and fixing it with her most dazzling smile said, "Good day and welcome to Semelar at noon."

3

Elizabeth carried a green television tray from the kitchen into her living room, where David had just switched on her Sony television set. He had stopped over for lunch and she decided to take an hour break from her work. She placed the tray on the coffee table and took her seat beside David. His lunch consisted of two ham and Swiss cheese sandwiches and a glass of milk. Hers was granola and yogurt with a glass of apple juice. She had heard that this program was to deal with the recent murders and disappearances. In the past three days Elizabeth had been growing increasingly frantic over the disappearances, especially those of the two children. It was becoming more and more difficult to let Nathaniel out of her sight. She hoped that this program would provide her with some new insight into the horrible situation. She settled in next to David, who draped an arm about her shoulder. She smiled, liking the feeling of security this gave her.

Then the smiling face of Melissa Danford flooded across the screen. "Good day and welcome to Semelar at Noon. Today we are going to address the rash of violent crimes that has unsettled our town. With us today is Doctor Cynara Simonovic, the recently appointed director of the Semelar County Psychiatric facility."

The beautiful countenance of a raven haired woman replaced Melissa's and David whistled appreciatively. Elizabeth elbowed him playfully in the ribs. "Keep your eyes in your head Stillman."

"With psychiatrists like that, I think that we're going to end up with a lot more crazy people looking for treatment," he laughed.

"If you're that impressed, you'll be able to meet her in person two Saturdays from now. We've received an invitation to a party that she's giving. Actually the invitation was addressed to Miss Elizabeth Simpson and escort and you're my escort from now on, mister," she declared affectionately. He smiled in return and hugged her. They both focused their attention on the screen, where Melissa continued her introduction of the day's program. "Semelar has been beset by a wave of violence that has claimed five lives and resulted in three disappearances. As yet, no clues have been found to indicate who might be responsible and still the terror continues. This horrific situation begs the question; how do we best protect ourselves from possible danger? In the interest of providing our viewer with this information, we have asked Doctor Simonovic to construct a profile of the kind of person who might be capable of such heinous acts. Dr. Simonovic, I would like to begin by asking if it is possible to construct an accurate, employable profile of a psychotic criminal?"

The camera then focused upon Cynara and Stillman marveled at her exquisite beauty. Once again, he was forced to admit to himself, with a certain degree of guilt that he looked forward to meeting her in person. As he listened to her speak, this desire became more pronounced because Cynara Simonovic showed herself to be a most formidable woman. "It is possible to construct a profile of course, but it is essential to realize that such a profile is a generalization which allows for a great deal of latitude."

"Are you suggesting that a profile of this type is not particularly useful?" Melissa interrupted, caught totally flat footed by the Doctor's opening remark.

"No, but I am saying that such a profile is merely a tool and is not an iron clad guide. It is true that extremely psychotic criminals do exhibit common traits, yet it is also important to understand that each is quite unique."

Melissa frowned. This was not going at all as she envisioned it. She had hoped to assemble some type of John Doe profile that would stick in the public's mind, but this woman was being uncooperative. Trying to conceal her agitation, she asked, "Aren't similar profiles frequently used in this type of investigation?"

"Occasionally they are, yes, but only as a general framework for an investigation by trained professionals who are trying to find a distinct pattern in a series of crimes. The resulting profile serves only as a starting point, nothing more."

"Would it not be possible for an ordinary citizen to detect some behavior pattern that could indicate psychotic tendencies?"

"Again you are asking me to make a gross oversimplification. At times, deviant behavior becomes very obvious, however, in many cases it is concealed beneath a facade of stability. The process of insanity may be rapid or gradual. The average person is not in a position to differentiate between neurosis and possible psychosis."

David laughed aloud and Elizabeth gave him a puzzled glance, which he noticed and read. "Oh Liz, this is great. It's like watching two prize fighters feeling each other out in the first round. This Melissa Danford is one tenacious bulldog."

Elizabeth nodded her head in agreement. "Yes, but I think that she's way out of her depth with this Cynara Simonovic. The Doctor refuses to be goaded into any kind of pointless publicity exercise."

They both looked back at the television set, where the verbal sparring session continued. "Doctor Simonovic," Melissa said, trying to change her approach, "you are familiar with both the murders and the disappearances; can you speculate s to whether or not it is the same person responsible for both very different crimes. What I'm trying to get at is that the murders were committed in an extremely gruesome manner and the disappearances as of yet, have yielded no corpses. The first set was made to be a sick display, but the second set was ambiguous. What does this suggest?"

"This is purely conjecture on my part, but on the surface of things it would appear as though two different people or groups were responsible. Then again, it is possible that the killer changed his pattern simply to unnerve his pursuers. This is a perfect example of the point that I am trying to convey to you and to the general public. Any opinion that I offer is pure conjecture and should be taken accordingly."

Melissa's frustration boiled to the surface and she snapped, "Then why did you agree to do this program, Doctor?"

Cynara did not appear the least bit flustered by Melissa's rudeness. "I consented to do this program specifically for this reason. It is important that the public not be given a stereotyped version of a psychotic killer. Not only would such a version be worthless, but it could conceivably be dangerous. The killer could very well be anyone, not just an unshaven, long haired drifter. The best and most responsible advice that you could give to your viewers would be to follow police directives and not to try and play amateur psychologist."

Doctor Simonovic had spoke with a tone that one would use when lecturing a small and very foolish child. This last attack took all of the fight out of Melissa. "I see," she said softly. "Doctor Simonovic, are you familiar with the theory that these types of killers often fix on specific people, essentially making these people their targets?"

"Yes, I am," Cynara responded.

"Have you ever considered the possibility that, by agreeing to do this show, you have made yourself a target?" Melissa asked, an ugly scowl distorting her otherwise pretty features. The floor director groaned audibly, unable to believe how Melissa had lost her composure. For her part, Cynara appeared momentarily flustered, but she recovered quickly. "Actually, I haven't given it a thought." Elizabeth leapt from her seat and rushed over to the television set. She snapped it off disgustedly. "I can't believe the gall of that little bitch. She practically implanted the idea in the killer's head, if he happened to be listening." Stillman was rather surprised by Elizabeth's angry reaction. To him, Melissa Danford was just another ambitious journalist who had let her frustration and impatience burst her bubble.

Chapter Four: Melissa

Seven hours later, Melissa sat alone in the staff lunch room, attempting to gather herself in the wake of the day's debacle. The time between then and now had been the most torturous of her entire life. Within minutes of the program's conclusion, she was called into the station director's office where she was forced to endure a tirade that seemed to last forever. He accused her of being both unethical and unprofessional in handling the entire matter. He went on to say that she had disgraced the station. Her list of sins went on and on and she was certain that she was about to be fired. She wasn't fired, but her career had been effectively ruined. She had been informed that, after the smoke of the day's disaster had cleared, she would be removed as the host of Semelar at Noon and relegated to a permanent role as field reporter. Most humiliating of all, the director insisted that she make a formal on air apology to Doctor Simonovic. She swallowed her pride and agreed, knowing that if she did not, she would soon find herself in the unemployment line.

She passed the flat of her palm over her cheek. This was an aspect of Melissa's personality that the world had never seen. She felt utterly defeated as if the foundations of her life had collapsed beneath her. Though she had not been fired, she knew that her career was all but over, and all because of that malicious, condescending cunt. She had ruined everything and Melissa suspected that Dr. Simonovic had done so deliberately. It had taken all of her shattered self control not to slap the bitch's arrogant face right on the air. She was grateful that she had been able to avoid that particular blunder.

In the space of thirty minutes, she had undermined three years of hard work. Sitting here, with tears and mascara running down her face, she could not say why Simonovic had dismantled her façade so easily. She had always been so unflappable. One of her greatest virtues as a reporter had been her ability to retain her composure under pressure and to anticipate possible problems. This Cynara had been lying in the bushes. She made Melissa look like a joke and had done so with an unexpectedness that was bewildering. Now her ambitions were in a shambles and she was faced with the imposing task of resurrecting her career. For the first time in her life, she lacked the energy to begin.

Pushing the chair away from the table, she walked back to her office, intending to go home for the night. She shuffled through the newsroom, feeling that her days here were rapidly coming to an end. As she entered her small office, her telephone rang, causing her to gasp. She would have preferred not to answer it, to simply go home and lick her wounds, but before she could stop herself, she picked up the receiver. "Hello, Ms. Danford speaking."

It was Helena, one of the station's receptionists, who seemed surprised to find Melissa still in her office. "Melissa, I've received about six calls for you over the last three hours. There is a man who says he wants to speak to you. He claims that it is urgent and has been demanding your home number. I told him that I wasn't allowed to give out that information and then he asked me to try your office again. Would you like me to put him through?"

"Go ahead, Helena," Melissa said in spite of herself. There was a pause and she waited, marveling at her own irrepressible curiosity. A few seconds later, she heard the click of the incoming call being connected. Though no one spoke, Melissa could sense a presence on the other end of the line. It was powerful and resonant with malevolence, causing her flesh to crawl as she listened. The tribulations of the day were quickly forgotten as she waited for the caller to speak.

"Is this Danford?" a voice inquired. It was deep and rough. Ominous.

"Yes, this is Melissa Danford," she replied.

"You were the one on TV today?"

"If you mean the Semelar at Noon program, yes that was me. Who is this?"

For a time no reply came back and she thought that the caller had hung up, and then he said, "I saw your show. That fucking bitch that you had on doesn't know shit and neither do you. I want to tell my story. I want people to understand what I'm doing and why."

It dawned on her who she was speaking to. Her heart began to hammer in her chest and she very nearly dropped the phone. "What do you want?"

"I want you to tell my story...on television."

"How? When?" she stammered, seeing the prospect of a brighter future blossoming before her eyes.

"I want to meet you tonight. There is an abandoned house on the end of Westfall Street. Number 412. I want you to be there in an hour. Come alone and bring a tape recorder. I'll be watching and if you've been followed or are trying to set me up, I'll know."

"I wouldn't do that," she interrupted. She had already decided to go along with whatever he asked, seeing absolution where others might have seen only an unacceptable risk.

"I know that you won't, because if you do then I'll find you. They found the Cooper kid without his head and guts, remember that. You have an hour, go there and wait, understand?"

"Yes, but..." before she could say anything more, the caller hung up. She set the receiver back in the cradle and stood for a moment. It flashed through her mind that it would be reckless to meet this lunatic, but the thought was replaced by the image of a smug self satisfied Cynara Simonovic walking away from her with a smirk on her face. This could be the ultimate coupe. If she could present the killer's story, she would gain instant notoriety. It would be an unprecedented journalistic breakthrough to air an interview with a killer at large. True, there were ethical considerations, but she would deal with them later. It was with thoughts of grandeur and redemption such as these that Melissa went out to find her final story.

As she pushed her Ford Escort through the rainy Semelar night, Melissa began to develop a new scheme. If, just if, she could catch a glimpse of her subject, she would be able to create a police profile or make a positive identification of the killer. She knew that this was dangerous, but the rewards would be well worth the risks. She crossed the tracks at Justin Drive and turned west onto Westfall Street. As she moved further west, the houses became progressively shabbier. 412 loomed up on the right and she pulled to the curb and killed the engine. She sat listening to the rain as it pounded furiously on the hood of her car. The night's chill seemed to emphasize her vulnerability. She inhaled deeply, gathering her courage, and stepped into the rainy darkness. She looked about, but could see no sign of habitation at this end of the street. It occurred to her that all of the other buildings this far up were derelicts. She hurried across the front lawn, which was overgrown with weeds and crab grass.

She climbed the wooden steps, feeling the boards sag below her. There was a sudden, sharp crack and she feared that she might actually go through the wood. Inside the house was even more decrepit than the outside had seemed. The house reeked of rotten wood and moldy wallpaper. Melissa was very afraid now and any sudden movement would have caused her to bolt and flee. Trying to make as little sound as possible, she crept through all of the downstairs rooms. She found nothing other than shredded newspaper and cardboard that might have served as a home for the rats.

At once her heart leapt up into her throat and her pulse began to race. In the room above her, somewhere on the second floor, a muffled knocking began. Sweat was forming on her forehead, despite the late September chill. She moved back into the front hall and then crept slowly up the stairs. Each step forward was an act of courage in a war of will. At the top of the landing she paused, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the knocking. It was coming from somewhere off to her left. She groped her way along the wall, which was slick with moisture, until she came to a door frame.

Melissa tented her fingers on the surface of the door which was slightly ajar. A dim light filtered through the opening. She pushed on the door and it swung inward with a rusty scream of hinges. Her nerves were taut and jangling, so she turned to flee.

"Don't run," issued a voice from the darkness. She recognized the speaker to be the man that she had talked to on the telephone. She froze, not sure whether to return or to flee. I'm here, she thought, trying to suppress the growing panic. _Everything that I've ever wanted is on the other side of that door._ Trying to calm herself, she turned and walked into the room.

The room was empty except for a single high back chair, around which a faint corona of light glowed. From the gloom a gruff voice beckoned her forward, "Come in."

The chair was positioned with its back to the door and it fully concealed the speaker. A gust of wind rattled a loose pane in the room's only window. Melissa could feel the blood thundering in her ears and the sweat coursing down her back. "Did you bring your tape recorder like I asked?"

"Yes," she replied. She cursed the way her voice quavered, despite her best efforts to steady it. She reached into her bag and withdrew a small Sony tape recorder with an inbuilt microphone. Switching the input volume to high, she asked, "Do you want me to start recording now?"

"Yes."

"Can I place the tape recorder beside your chair? I want to be certain that I'm getting your story on tape."

"You can lay it by the chair, but if you try to get a look at my face, I'll have to kill you." he warned. Melissa could detect an amused, teasing edge to his voice. He possessed a subtle sense of humor, however warped. She slowly advanced, laying the recorder beside his chair. "Would you like to start now?"

"If you wish," Again, there was a certain playfulness resonating in the tone.

"Are you responsible for the murders and disappearances that have taken place in Semelar over the last several weeks?"

"Yes," he replied with undisguised pride.

"Where are the missing people?"

"In hell, where they belong," he bellowed, causing Melissa to jump. She took a deep breath. ' _God, I'm so scared,_ ' she thought. She could see how volatile this maniac was. The wrong word might send him into a killing frenzy. "You said that they are in hell where they belong. Why do you think that they belong there?"

"They are corrupt. They are sinners. They stink of sin. This whole town is foul with the smell of it."

He was mad. It radiated from him like heat from a stove. Here was a religious zealot, pushing his fantasies to ludicrous and murderous extremes. "Why have you come here?"

"Stupid cunt!" he spat disgustedly, as if he could hardly conceive of anyone being so obtuse. "I've come here to extirpate the sinners, to purge the evil from this town. I have much work to do."

"Are you saying that you're going to continue to commit murders?" she asked, horrified and yet secretly excited by the prospect.

"I'll do what has to be done," he intoned solemnly. She had no doubt that he was sincere. The precariousness of her situation struck her then. She was alone, in a rundown house on a derelict street, with a psychotic killer and she hadn't told anyone where she was going. The pure folly of her actions hit her like a sledgehammer. Melissa realized how badly she had mismanaged her life. Up until that point, she had made all of the right moves for all of the wrong reasons. The killer seemed to sense her fear, for he laughed. It was a low rumbling laughter, full of sinister mirth.

"That frightens you, doesn't it?" he asked. "Doesn't it!" he barked, this time without humor.

"Yes," she stammered, looking around her and measuring the distance to the door. As she watched, an arm fell over the edge of the chair. The hand clutched a long butcher knife, which gleamed silver in the dull light. The killer began to dig the knife blade into the side of the chair. Large tufts of stuffing spilled out of the slashes with each stroke. "I'm going to show you something bitch, and I want you to watch carefully. Your life may depend on it."

Melissa sprang to her feet and ran for the door, but before she could reach it, the door swung shut with a crash that sent pieces of plaster tumbling to the floor. She slammed into it on the dead run and was thrown to the floor. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she leapt to her feet and pulled frantically at the door handle. It refused to open. She began to whimper, expecting to feel the knife tear into her at any second. Instead, Melissa heard only laughter. She slid along the door to her knees, as tears began to flow down her pretty face. "There's no where to run. Don't cry. I only want to give you a demonstration of my work."

Slowly, she turned her head back to the killer, feeling the tendons in her neck creak as she did. He was going to show her things that she knew she did not want to see. He stood with his back to her, still holding the knife. Then, in a clumsy parody of a pirouette, he spun to face her. She could see his face and knew that he would never let her live. He had long straggly black hair. His brown eyes blazed with lunacy...windows into a world where the knife and the hammer dispensed justice. He wore a long rider coat and dirty jeans. Seeing him, Melissa thought that he looked exactly as she would have imagined him. Her mind had no sooner formulated this thought, when she heard a derisive laughter coming out of the darkness behind the killer.

Cynara Simonovic stepped into the circle of light. She stood casually behind the killer as if she were doing something as innocuous as waiting in a checkout line. In a cheerful voice, Cynara declared, "It seems as though circumstances have brought us together once again Melissa."

Melissa lay trembling against the door, having fallen totally under the pall of her terror. Cynara had moved in front of the killer and stood with her back to him. She gestured towards him with a sweeping flash of her hand. "Isn't he perfect Melissa? If you were going to create a psychotic profile, he would be ideal," she said sarcastically. "Isn't this what you had in mind this afternoon?"

Melissa could say nothing, only whimper and try to draw up inside of herself. Cynara strolled over to where she lay and knelt down beside her. She then seized Melissa's hair and pounded her face into the door. She continued to batter the smaller woman's head against the unyielding wood until Melissa could taste hot blood in her mouth.

"Stop. Please stop!" she screamed, trying to grasp Cynara's wrist.

"You called me a bitch and I wouldn't want to disappoint you. The one thing that you must realize is that bitches are notorious for being vindictive," Her painful hold upon Melissa's hair gave way to a gentle caress and her tone became maternal. Somehow, her feigned compassion frightened Melissa even more than her undisguised hatred. "Nonetheless Melissa, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. I understand that you are an ambitious woman with aspirations and I'm always willing to do my part to advance a career. I've put together a little demonstration, as it were, to help put your flagging career back on the tracks."

She bent forward and lifted Melissa from the floor, carrying her towards the room's single chair as if she were a rag doll. Surely this was a nightmare, cooked up by her mind to punish her for the day's transgressions. What other explanations could there be for Simonovic's presence or the fact that she was carrying Melissa as if she weighed no more than a bundle of cloth. When they had reached the chair, Cynara threw Melissa down upon it roughly, snapping her head back and causing her to bite down on her own tongue. The salty taste of blood filled her mouth, making her want to gag. Cynara knelt before her with the same maternal smile still etched upon her beautiful face. "This is no dream Melissa," she said softly. "But, perhaps you require some tangible proof?"

Cynara placed the flat of her palm upon Melissa's forehead and pushed back. Melissa's mouth popped open. Cynara reached in and grasped her right incisor. There was a tremendous jerk as she pulled downward, ripping the tooth right out of Melissa's gum. A brilliant flash of white hot light exploded in her head, followed by a wave of excruciating pain. More blood filled her mouth and throat, causing Melissa to vomit. The taste of blood was replaced by hot, burning bile. As Melissa sat whimpering in agony, Cynara held the tooth up before her and crushed it to a fine powder. "As you now know Melissa, what you are seeing and feeling is very real. It's imperative that you understand this if you are to truly appreciate what you are about to see."

Cynara gestured to the killer, who up until now had remained motionless. He turned away from the two and moved into the shadows. For the first time since she had entered, Melissa realized that the dull light which illuminated a portion of the room had no visible source.

Her mind was tilted off kilter. She looked towards the killer and emitted a high pitched shriek upon seeing that he had returned from the dark corner with a small girl in tow. The girl's hands were bound behind her back and her mouth was gagged. Melissa could see her bulging eyes and her flushed face. She could imagine the sheer terror that the girl must be experiencing. Cynara put an arm around the girl's shoulders and brushed the hair from her eyes. She smiled fondly and gave the girl's cheek a gentle pinch. "Such a pretty child, wouldn't you say Melissa? Is this not the kind of face that would evoke sympathy from millions of television viewers across the nation?"

"You came here in search of a story, didn't you Melissa? Well, I've arranged an event for your benefit - something that is guaranteed to be newsworthy," Cynara nodded to the killer, who shambled forward at her beckoning. She pushed the girl towards him and he caught her in the crook of his left arm. He then tilted her head upwards, exposing her thin, white throat.

"Please don't Cynara. You don't have to do this. God please," Melissa pleaded, understanding Cynara's intentions. Cynara feigned surprise. "Why not...is this not the stuff that your professional dreams are made of? Death. Bloodshed. Butchery. As for God, I would have thought such an incisive woman would already understand that God and I have only an antagonistic relationship. You have come here in search of a story and a story you shall have."

As if responding to some unheard command, the killer raised the butcher knife to the girl's throat and pressed it into the skin just below her chin. Melissa could see that the skin around the blade was white from the pressure being applied. Tears of horror and grief began to stream down Melissa's blood stained face. They intended to kill this girl right before her eyes and she was powerless to stop them. The killer jerked the blade across the girl's throat in a rapid slicing motion. A thin red line appeared there and the girl uttered a strangled cry of pain. The knife sliced deeper and deeper. Melissa could clearly hear the liquid cutting sounds and she began to wail. The girl was still aware of what was happening to her, but now there was a look of resignation in her eyes. With one brutal pass of the blade, the killer extinguished her life energy.

After a time the body fell forward, but the killer still held her head by the hair. Holding it out before him, he crossed to where Melissa sat fighting for her sanity. He towered over her, as the blood from the disembodied head dripped into her lap. She could not drag her eyes away from that head. It was an indictment against everything which she had become. He held it there for a moment and then released his grip, letting it fall directly into her lap. Revolted, Melissa spread her legs and let it fall to the floor. It hit the scarred boards with a dull thud. She averted her eyes, no longer able to tolerate the sight. Cynara took hold of Melissa's chin and forced her to look at the detached head. "Look, you despicable little bitch. This is your doing. You profess to be ethical, when in fact you care for nothing beyond your own advancement and what would best facilitate it. Don't pretend to be appalled by what you see because if your type could not find things of this nature, they would create them. You're a parasite and nothing more, despite all of your philosophical bullshit. Your kind thrives on bloodshed and misery, so don't sit there with tears in your eyes, whining about how horrible all of this is. That would be an insult to my intelligence."

Melissa could only watch her, hating her and hating herself. As much as she loathed Cynara, there was a degree of truth in her words. Cynara's eyes widened slightly with a sudden flash of inspiration. She assumed a conspiratorial tone, speaking to Melissa in a whisper, "Melissa, it's just occurred to me that you've approached the problem of gaining national acceptance from entirely the wrong angle. Instead of reporting the news, why not become part of the news and claim your small piece of immortality. You, Melissa, could transcend the boundary of reporting the news to actually becoming the news."

Cynara clapped her hands together, evidently quite pleased with herself. Melissa blinked, not yet understanding what the other woman was trying to get at. The pain in her head and the shock of seeing the girl killed had robbed her of her ability to think. Then comprehension filtered through the pain and she began to plead. "No, don't. Not me, please. Goddamn it, no."

Her shrill cry reverberated off of the walls, falling on deaf ears. Cynara turned to her lackey and spoke to him in a language that Melissa couldn't understand. He looked at her with a new animation in his eyes and started to move in her direction. Melissa bolted, but not for the door. She started in that direction, but then ran for the window. Cynara anticipated this and extended her foot in a sweeping motion, sending Melissa crashing to the floor. The witch then kicked her viciously in the thigh, twice. Melissa writhed in agony, as Cynara grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled the smaller woman to her feet.

"Please Cynara, kill me but don't torture me. I...I can't stand the pain. Please kill me quickly." Melissa begged, her words spilling out in a deluge.

Cynara responded by pushing her towards the killer, who caught her in his arm and shoved her to the floor. He then fell upon her, meaning to plunder her flesh. Cynara sat upon the armchair, taking great pleasure in Melissa's agony as the killer brutally raped her. Mere violation was not enough to satisfy his blood lust and as he neared release, he raised the knife and let it fall again and again. Eventually he stopped and stood, watching Cynara expectantly, "You've done well." she said, with a dismissive nod. "You may go." He turned and walked to the door, but he did not open it. Instead, he passed through it as if it were no more substantial than a mist. Cynara was left alone with the debris of the night's theatrics. She glanced down at the ravaged body of Melissa Danford. Her eyes were still open, staring vacantly at the ceiling. Cynara noticed how lovely her eyes were. They were green and captured light like emeralds and quite lovely, really. Cynara knelt down beside Melissa and, placing her index finger on the bridge of her nose and her thumb on the opposite side of the eyeball, pressed inward. They would find Melissa Danford five hours later. Her eye sockets were empty.

Chapter Five: The Party (Endgame Gambit)

1

The intervening days between the discovery of Melissa Danford's body and Cynara Simonovic's party brought an uneasy lull to Semelar. Melissa's death attracted national attention, just as Cynara predicted that it would. Channel Twelve raised a furor about the Sheriff Department's inability not only to capture the killer but to even produce clues that could lead to his eventual capture. The general public tensed, expecting an escalation of the violence. When none came, the town gradually settled into a posture of cautious optimism, hoping that the insanity was finally coming to an end. As the days slipped by, the tension abated ever so slowly.

By the day of the party, Melissa Danford's murder was quickly becoming a shop worn topic of conversation. Elizabeth Simpson was growing quite comfortable with the sudden changes in her own life. She and David had rediscovered each other and were growing closer by the hour. She smiled, recalling how often they had made love since that first night. She was pleasantly surprised to find that her sexual appetite was still healthy after being dormant for so long. ' _Healthy was an understatement,'_ she amended. ' _Voracious would be a better choice of words_.' David and Nathaniel had really taken to each other. The three gave an obvious impression of a unified family.

Her delight was tempered by the unshakable intuition that something was about to enter her life and change it forever. She didn't know if this change would be positive or negative, but she did know that it was dogging her and causing her a great deal of vague anxiety. She rose Saturday morning, determined not to let those doubts and anxieties spoil the party. Tonight would serve as a sort of coming out. It would provide an opportunity to let Semelar see her and David as a couple. She had spent all day Friday browsing through every clothing store in town, searching for the ideal gown for the occasion. After five hours of non-stop shopping, she finally found the perfect dress. The price was an appalling six hundred dollars, which made her feel quite guilty. Not guilty enough, however, to stop her from buying it anyways. Feeling good, she had not only bought the dress, but the matching shoes and purse as well. As she drove home with sore feet and needing a nap, she marveled at how such simple things could make a person so blissfully happy. To Elizabeth, the ability to appreciate small pleasures was contingent upon a persons overall contentment with their life.

David arrived at four o'clock Saturday afternoon, with his rented tux in a suit bag. Though the party was not slated to begin until eight, he came to keep Nathaniel suitably distracted, while Elizabeth went through her elaborate preparations. David was amused by all of the fuss this event had generated. He felt sorry for women in general, who seemed to require four hours to get ready - he would be dressed and ready to go in about twenty minutes.

Mrs. Miller arrived at seven o'clock to collect Nathaniel. Elizabeth watched them go with a certain degree of reluctance. Though there had been no new incidents since the Danford murder, she still felt uneasy about letting the boy out of her sight. The killer hadn't been caught, yet a lot of people were acting as if he had conveniently vanished. Elizabeth knew that such delusions could be dangerous.

David sat in the living room, absently leafing through an interior design magazine, when Elizabeth's bedroom door swung open and she moved into the doorway. David could only shake his head in wonder. "You look absolutely magnificent."

Her statuesque body was draped in a sequined gown that clung to and accentuated the perfection of her long curves. The dress was white with gold trim, adorned by a conservative side split that ended just above the knee. She raised one arm and rested it against the door frame, while lifting her chin to an arrogant yet alluring angle. With a mischievous smile, she inquired, "Well, will this do?"

"Liz, I can only say this, if we don't leave right now, you'll never make it past the bedroom," he said and gave her a lecherous wink.

"The idea is appealing, but it took me three and a half hours to get ready, so I suppose that we better go." She walked towards him, mesmerizing him with the gentle sway of her hips. She stopped beside him and bending down, tenderly kissed his lips. "I love you David and I'm so glad that you've come back."

"So am I," he replied simply. They drove to the Simonovic mansion in silence. Elizabeth felt an odd blend of emotions that made her stomach flutter. She was slightly intimidated by socializing with some of Semelar's elite. Semelar, despite its size, had a relatively high concentration of prosperous businessmen, who preferred Semelar's verdant setting to the bustle of Seattle. She would surely meet many of these men and women tonight and she found that prospect both exhilarating and unsettling. The person that she was most anxious to meet, however, was in fact the hostess, Cynara Simonovic. She was greatly impressed by the woman during her television interview. She had handled Danford's assault effortlessly, dancing intellectual circles around the other woman. Yet, there was something more about the woman which fascinated Elizabeth. She had a certain presence that was most compelling.

They passed through a portion of the highway where the tree tops had reached for each other across the open road, creating a natural canopy. As they emerged from this delightful tunnel, the imposing silhouette of the Simonovic mansion loomed to their right. Elizabeth had never been inside, but she had seen and thoroughly studied the blue prints and structural plans. The large wrought iron gates were opened and David turned the Oldsmobile onto the brick drive, moving into what had apparently been designated as the parking area. He came to a halt beside a Mercedes two door, convertible. Parking, he shut down the engine, got out and moved around to open Elizabeth's door. As she emerged into the crisp night air, looking strikingly regal, David felt a wave of pride sweep over him; he was the escort of the most beautiful woman in Semelar. She took his arm and they strolled up the drive, both admiring the collection of cars that were assembled there. They walked past a black Jaguar with gold rims and trimming. Stillman couldn't resist the urge to stop and admire it. "This is a true masterpiece. God, Liz, look at these beautiful lines."

"Well David, when we're both filthy rich, I'll buy you one as a birthday present," she promised with a laugh. He smiled, surveying the house and grounds as he did. "Judging by this house, I would say that this Cynara Simonovic hasn't done too badly for herself."

"This is a lovely work of architecture, David. It was built between 1910 and 1913 by Morly Connel, who was Semelar's first lumber Baron. It has been owned by some of the most powerful men and women in the town's history. This house is the most coveted piece of real estate in the area."

"What would you say that it's worth?" Stillman asked. Elizabeth had stopped and stood regarding the house, her face alight with reverence.

"I've heard that its estimated value is over three million dollars, but to me it's priceless.

David was rather amazed by this estimate. He gave a low whistle and said, "Then this Doctor Simonovic must be very wealthy indeed."

They mounted the front steps, which were large, flat slabs of granite. Elizabeth was fascinated by the ornamental door knockers, which were brass impressions of gargoyles similar to the ones which adorned the fence. She studied the small cast creatures. They were horrible, yet held an evocative quality that drew ones attention again and again. David rang the bell and seconds later, a uniformed butler opened the large oak double doors and ushered them in. Silently, he collected David's topcoat and Elizabeth's sable wrap, taking them into the adjacent coat room. David watched Liz carefully. A subtle change had come over her in the past few minutes. A dream state seemed to have descended upon her like a fine mist. She moved and spoke like someone beguiled.

For her part, Elizabeth was engrossed in the marvelous detail of the mansion where she now found herself. She was surprised by the foyer of the mansion. More specifically, she was surprised by the furnishing there. She would have expected a more modern decor. Instead she found an oak foyer, adorned by Chippendale furniture which created a wonderful set of contrasts. She was astounded to see what must be reproduction of a Mathias Locke mirror. She moved over to it and ran her fingers over the beautiful wood. Elizabeth believed that, provided one had the requisite funds, personal furnishing reflected everything about the owner's character. All of the furniture that she had seen, including the chairs and benches positioned around the foyer, contained the same curving, serpentine lines. Interwoven into all of these curves was a series of Gothic birds and gargoyles, nymphs, and even dragons. This woman had created an eloquent statement. Her taste demonstrated a penchant for the Gothic, which to Elizabeth at least, demonstrated her exquisite taste. "David this is so incredible, so ethereal...so emotionally eloquent."

' _God, she is so utterly obsessed,_ ' he thought. He could feel the strength of her passion. Where he saw stylish furniture, she evidently saw genius or art. The butler returned and led them down a long hall that branched off from the rear of the foyer. They turned left and passed through a set of double doors into the main hall. As they moved across the threshold, conversation in the room dropped back several levels and Elizabeth could feel the weight of dozens of eyes upon her. David also noticed the stares, most of which were directed towards Elizabeth. They ranged from admiration to unconcealed lust. The butler came to a halt and then turned to face them. "The bar has been set up against the far wall and a waitress will circulate as well. There are a host of butlers circulating with hors d'oeuvres. Dinner will be served in the main hall and will begin at precisely nine o'clock."

He then nodded formally and walked away. After he had moved out of ear shot, David quipped. "I'm sure if we looked under his jacket, we'd find a slot for his batteries."

Elizabeth smiled. "I think that a drink is in order."

They moved through the midst of the gathering and Elizabeth was acknowledged by several people, including the Mayor and the president of Semelar Pulp and Paper, Jim Cameron. Mrs. Mason took Elizabeth's hand and they spent several minutes discussing the progress of her mansion's renovations. During all of this, David remained in the background. Elizabeth proudly introduced David, but he was only acknowledged and then forgotten as the attention quickly switched back to Liz. This is what a shadow must feel like, he thought. He was a returning native son, who had established a fairly successful writing career, yet here, he was only Elizabeth Simpson's escort. Still, this was not such a bad thing to be and as they all came to be near the beauty, he faded into the background. Time passed the alcohol worked its charm, leading the party to gain both enthusiasm and volume. David glanced around, but could see no sign of the hostess. He stood holding a gin and tonic, surveying the large hall, when he noticed a solitary woman descending the central staircase.

Stillman stood, mouth agape, as she descended. She had a beautiful shock of black hair that was swept back to one side, held there by a silver barrette. She seemed incredibly tall and even from this distance, he could see the perfection of her body. He was surprised to see that she was clad in a black sequined gown very similar to the one that Elizabeth wore. Her gown, however, was not high collared, but plunged to reveal a tantalizing abundance of cleavage. Her dress, too, had a side slit, but this slit ran to mid thigh, revealing a long expanse of firm curving thigh each time she moved. Gradually, every eye in the hall was drawn upward to the descending vision. To David's amazement, someone actually began to clap and one by one everyone joined in, giving the hostess a thunderous ovation.

Cynara did not blush at the rather absurd display. She merely raised her hand and smiled, as if an ovation was exactly what her presence warranted. "Thank you. I would like to thank all of you for coming here tonight. You have helped make my transition that much easier. I'd especially like to thank my staff for helping me assume smooth control of our ship. From what I've seen, Semelar is a vibrant, thriving community and you are the catalyst for this vibrancy. I hope that I can be on friendly terms with all of you. Enjoy tonight. Following dinner, a band will provide the entertainment for the rest of the evening. Enjoy!"

Cynara concluded by flashing them a dazzling smile and resuming her descent. Elizabeth had moved back over to where David stood. She placed a hand upon his shoulder and whispered, "She's incredible. She has the deportment of a queen."

At first David thought that she was being somewhat sarcastic about Cynara's dramatic entrance, but when he turned to face her, he could see that the beguiled look was still set on her face. Now it was even more pronounced than it had been before. "Are you feeling alright Liz?"

She glanced at him as if he had just asked a totally ludicrous question. "I'm perfectly fine David."

Cynara moved down into the midst of her guests, exchanging a word with most, while moving in the general direction of the bar. At once the flesh on Stillman's arms and back began to rise in great hackles. He felt as if he were caught in the middle of two converging fields of energy, which were moving closer and gathering momentum as they did. Cynara was only twenty feet away now, conversing with the Mayor and his group. They all seemed captivated with their hostess, which, in David's mind, was entirely understandable.

2

She moves down the stairs descending into the throng that has assembled there. She has done this many times before, in dozens of different countries, over the decades. She can see the familiar looks of admiration and lust written upon their faces. It does not surprise her when they begin to applaud. She accepts this as being only fitting. She pays them a meaningless compliment and they preen, pleased by her empty words. They are rabble and she loathes them all. Still, this entrance is different from the others; for the ONE is down there. Cynara can feel her presence upon her skin and in her loins. Cynara's reprobate heart is thundering like a timpani, as she feels the pulse of desire beating within her. The demon struggles to retain her composure, but it is difficult, for now she sees the beauty of the ONE and it exceeds her wildest expectations. They are about to meet in a culmination of over sixty years of endless searching.

Elizabeth sees the Doctor as well. She is moving in her general direction, yet despite the casual meandering course, Elizabeth has the distinct impression that Cynara is moving towards her and her alone. She is struck by the conviction that the meeting between herself and this other woman has somehow been preordained. Cynara has just taken the hand of the Mayor and allowed him to kiss her cheek. She smiles radiantly at the man, who Elizabeth believes is a pompous bore. They exchange a few words and then Cynara moves away from him.

She is moving directly towards Elizabeth and David now. David gasps inside. He is awed by the two beauties. Despite their differences, they are remarkably similar. Both are tall, full figured women, with waspish waists and full hips. Their faces are structurally perfect and quite identical, highlighted by high cheek bones and spectacular, expressive eyes. David sees Cynara as a dark reflection of his Elizabeth. Elizabeth has a blonde, angelic beauty, while Cynara is a dark, sensuous Goddess, who seems more carnal... more erotic. It is as if the two were separated by a colored filter. He senses a thickening of the atmosphere around the two women...a concentration of invisible electric currents.

Cynara crosses the distance between the two, but first turns to David. She extends her hand and he takes it in his. It is warm and her grip is unexpectedly strong. "Hello, my name is Doctor Cynara Simonovic. Welcome to my home."

"Thank you. My name is David Stillman." She makes no reply, only smiles and then turns to Elizabeth Simpson. David can almost hear the click as the two women's eyes lock. He feels that he has wandered into the midst of some dangerous enchantment. He looks from one woman to the other. A new light has come into their eyes. They seem to be sharing a vision that only they can see.

When Elizabeth first looks into the other woman's eyes, she is struck by the prominent gold flecks, which appear to swim in the brown depths. The room around them recedes until only she and Cynara exist. In a burst of splendid light, she penetrates the veil of those eyes, into the very chamber of the other woman's soul. A vivid image flashes through Elizabeth's mind. It is an image of her and Cynara engaged in an erotic dance of flesh and passion. She is lavishing tender kisses on the other woman's cheek, shoulders and breasts. Cynara, in turn, is running her fingertips over the contours of Elizabeth's marvelous body. Each is covered in a sheen of perspiration and both are totally lost in the pleasure of their intimacy. The power of the image is compelling and Elizabeth can sense her body responding to its allure. She can feel warmth spreading within her, causing her knees to wobble.

Cynara can see that the other woman is responding dramatically to the image that she is projecting. In the first moment of visual contact Cynara becomes certain that in time, she will have her prize. She extends her hand forward and Elizabeth takes it in hers. Cynara then places the fingers of her opposite hand on Elizabeth's elbow. The touch is delicate, tickling. Elizabeth feels as though she has been brushed by butterfly wings. For Elizabeth, the touch evokes a reaction that transcends the limits of normal physical contact. She shudders and her eyelids flutter as her body spasms in a series of violent contractions. Reeling in disbelief, Elizabeth realizes that she has been ripped by a powerful orgasm. Then her knees fold and she pitch's forward into Cynara's arms. Cynara struggles to retain control as her own breasts mash against Elizabeth's. She can feel the thunder of the other woman's heart and knows her enchantment has achieved its desired effect.

There was a rush of startled cries as people nearby became aware of what had happened. David stood paralyzed beside the two. He could not grasp what he had just witnessed. In the space of seconds, Liz had tensed violently as if she had been gripped by a seizure, and then she had collapsed into the Doctor's arms. A murmur ran through the crowd as people strained to see what had happened. Cynara motioned to the throng to give her space. "Please stand back. I'm afraid that this woman has fainted. Please give her room to breathe."

She turned to David, who met her stare with a concerned, inquiring gaze of his own. "Mr. Stillman, would you please help me carry...uh?"

"Elizabeth," he replied anxiously. Part of his mind reflected on how odd it was that this woman had no idea who Elizabeth was and yet she had invited her to this party. David felt a vague, but sharp dread blossom in his mind. Cynara's apparent calm intimated that she knew precisely what had happened to Elizabeth. "Will you help me move Ms. Simpson into the study?"

David took Elizabeth's left arm and moved her in the direction of the study. He was alarmed by how slack Elizabeth's body felt as he carried her along. They moved out of the main reception hall, across the corridor and into the study. Cynara gestured in the direction of a large black leather couch and they gently laid Elizabeth upon it. Cynara propped her head up with a plush pillow. David could see Liz stir slightly and breathed a sigh of relief.

"If you would wait outside for a moment, I will attend to Ms. Simpson. She is going to be fine. I promise." She flashed one of her dazzling smiles of reassurance. An objection had been forming upon his lips, but it wilted under that smile and he went obediently, giving Elizabeth one last appraising glance. Then he left the study, closing the double doors behind him.

When they were alone, Cynara looked down on the prone figure of Elizabeth Simpson. How lovely she looked with her arm draped across her breasts. Cynara watched the enticing rise and fall of the other woman's bosom as she breathed. She crossed the carpeted floor and stood over her, relishing the blonde's smooth, serene beauty. She bent forward and slowly traced the ridge of Elizabeth's cheekbone with a long, lacquered nail. She was physical beauty embodied - perfection; a rare commodity indeed. Soon, very soon, she would become Cynara's exclusive possession.

Cynara slowly waved a hand over the other woman's face and Elizabeth opened her eyes. They were vacant, staring up at the ceiling and well beyond, into infinity. To Cynara, her eyes were the deepest blue of fresh water springs. They were the way that sapphires would appear if they could be granted life. Gradually they came to focus and Elizabeth muttered thickly, "What happened?"

She turned her head and saw Cynara calmly looking down at her. Her bewitching brown eyes recalled the jolting sensation of the orgasm and she flushed. The Doctor's eyes narrowed slightly and she said, "How do you feel?"

"Fine, I think," she replied weakly.

"You fainted. I've checked your vital signs and it appears the episode may have been caused by nothing more than the heat."

"Yes, perhaps," Elizabeth agreed, hoping that her expression didn't betray any of what she was feeling.

"Do you feel feverish?"

"I don't believe so. I just feel rather disoriented."

Cynara placed the back of her hand on Elizabeth's forehead. It felt warm, but not alarmingly so. Cynara smiled, playing the concerned doctor role to perfection. "I think you'll be fine. Try to sit up."

Liz complied, but found that the light-headedness had not entirely gone. Cynara place her hands upon Elizabeth's shoulders and gently but firmly pushed her into the upright position. Elizabeth could feel her body responding again and shivered; baffled that this woman's touch could have such a profound affect on her. Cynara let her hands drop from Elizabeth's shoulders and then turned and strode to the liquor cabinet behind the study desk. She withdrew a crystal decanter and poured a small glass of Courvoisier. She returned to the sofa and extended the drink towards Elizabeth. "Sip this slowly. I'm sure that you'll start to feel better."

Elizabeth took the glass from the other woman's hand. The drink was smooth and warmed her as it coursed through her insides. She could feel the dullness in her head begin to subside somewhat.

"I believe you are Elizabeth Simpson?" Cynara asked with a warm smile.

"Yes, Doctor Simonovic."

"Please, no need to be so formal. My friends call me Cyn."

' _I'm sure that they do,'_ Elizabeth thought. She took the Doctor's extended hand and squeezed gently. "I must admit that I was rather surprised to receive an invitation to such a distinguished gathering."

Cynara strolled about the room for a moment, giving no reply. Then she turned back to Elizabeth and said, "This is a beautiful house, is it not?"

"Yes, it's exquisite."

"Still, there are changes that I would like to make," Elizabeth's pained reaction caused her to promptly add. "Oh don't worry. I'm not proposing major alterations. I'd simply like to infuse the house with a small amount of my personality."

"Of course, I understand. It's just that when someone suggests changing something so magnificent, I become extremely nervous. I didn't mean to question your judgment."

"Elizabeth, I've invited you here because I've been told that you are an extremely competent interior designer and I'd like you to consider undertaking some of my proposed changes."

"I'm flattered and I'd be delighted to look at your proposals. May I ask who told you about my business?" Elizabeth asked, thinking that it must have been Mrs. Mason.

Cynara's reply was unexpectedly coy. "A woman never reveals her sources, but suffice it to say, this person was quite taken with your work. Would you be able to return tomorrow afternoon? I'd really like to start the process as quickly as possible."

"Yes, that would be fine. Thank you, Cynara and thank you for inviting me. I think I feel well enough to go back now. I'm sure that David will be worried," Cynara reached down and supporting the other woman, assisted Elizabeth to her feet. The subtle touch of her long nails upon Elizabeth's skin was indescribably exciting. Cynara led the way to the door a few paces in front of Elizabeth. Her black sequined dress was styled in a deep V and when she moved, Elizabeth could see the titillating dance of the other woman's back muscles. Cynara's stride looked decidedly feline. Cynara paused at the door and turned to Elizabeth. "Originally I invited you here to propose a business arrangement, but I hope that we can become friends."

Elizabeth met the other woman's eyes and could feel a strong current of some indefinable emotion pass between them. "Thank you. That's a true compliment coming from such a successful and lovely woman and yes, I'm sure that we can become friends."

When the double doors to the study opened and the two women emerged, David felt some of his anxiety slip away. Elizabeth looked fine, showing no ill effects from her fainting spell. "Are you okay, Liz?"

"I'm fine and the Doctor will confirm that, I'm sure, if you want a second opinion," Elizabeth declared quietly. David watched as the two women exchanged glances. He was rather puzzled by the warmth that passed between them. It was as if the two women were old friends and not people who had met only moments before. A tiny inkling of fear kept trying to insinuate itself into his thoughts. He could ascribe no specific form to his disquiet, but he found himself frightened nonetheless. His facial expression must have betrayed his consternation, for Elizabeth said, "David, I really am fine."

"I'm sorry Liz, I was just wool-gathering," he replied. She smiled, apparently accepting this, though he noticed that Cynara was watching him intently. For some reason, her close scrutiny only exacerbated his uneasiness. He was relieved when they moved back into the main hall and Cynara left them to mingle. David whispered to Elizabeth. "What happened? Jesus, I was really worried?"

Elizabeth looked away. "It was the heat combined with the excitement, I guess."

David could sense that she was being intentionally evasive. No, more than that, he thought that she was telling a bald face lie, but he decided to let it go.

The remainder of the night was wonderful. The caterers provided a varied and delectable blend of traditional and Asian dishes, served in a buffet style. The liquor flowed freely and as the night wore on, most of the guests loosened up...some more than others and some perhaps more than they should have. People formed the inevitable party clusters, each alive with vibrant conversation. The Mayor and his wife were stationed near the bar, along with Clifford Wilson, who was the district prosecutor. As David approached the group, he could hear Wilson relating some of the details of the Danford murder. "It's the weirdest Goddamn thing that I've ever seen. We found the tape recorder and played the tape in our audio labs. You can clearly hear Danford asking questions as if she were interviewing someone, but there are no replies. Only gaps."

"Gaps? Like portions of the tape have been erased, you mean?" the Mayor's wife asked, frightened and intrigued at the same time.

"No, the tape hadn't been altered. We had that checked. It was as if she were speaking to herself and hearing answers that just weren't there."

"Jesus. How do you explain that?" It was the mayor speaking this time.

"We don't. It doesn't make one bit of fucking sense," he responded sourly. His frustration was quite obvious, as was the fact that he was very drunk. "There are other things about this Goddamn case that make absolutely no sense. What the killer did to Danford was repulsive beyond belief. She was not only raped and torn apart, but one of her teeth and her eyes were gone. It was as if the fucker kept them as trophies."

Stillman was horrified by what he was hearing. He found it inconceivable that someone could be so deliberately cruel. He looked around to see who else had overheard the conversation and he saw that Cynara was standing behind the mayor. She wore an amused expression that David could not reconcile with the conversation. Then Stillman recalled her confrontation with Danford. Nonetheless, he couldn't believe that she would derive any pleasure from what had been done to the reporter. He shuddered and carrying his drinks, turned and moved back to where Elizabeth stood talking to a lawyer named Jonathon Ashford.

Elizabeth had shrugged off her dizziness and was making a fair effort at rekindling her party mood. She loved the atmosphere, the conversation and the people; all of the things that had been absent from her life over the last few years. As she circulated through the gathering with David beside her, her awareness of Cynara grew ever stronger. Occasionally, she would look up to see the raven haired beauty gazing directly at her. Each time, Cynara would smile radiantly and then turn her attention back to who ever she had been talking with. Elizabeth felt an undeniable attraction to the other woman. She was astounded to realize that this attraction was not without its physical dimension. She had never encountered a woman who was so alluring, so intriguing. Elizabeth found herself gripped by a complicated and confusing mixture of emotions that she would have to resolve. Some primitive intuition told her that what had happened here tonight would forever alter the course of her life. Oddly enough, this notion didn't disturb her as much as it exhilarated her. Though she could not say why, Elizabeth suspected that her life was to become intertwined with the other woman's.

The band's energy level finally drifted into the negative regions a little after two o'clock Sunday morning. Soon there after, the party broke up as most of the guests began to wander away. Most looked quite worn down and exhausted, all except Cynara and Elizabeth, who looked remarkably fresh. Cynara stationed herself at the door, bidding each of her guests good night. When she arrived at David and Elizabeth, she brightened visibly. She shook David's hand and then Elizabeth's, letting the grip linger for a moment. "I'm looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, at one o'clock if it is convenient for you."

"That would be fine Cynara."

"If you wish, we could have a late lunch and discuss my proposals as we do."

"Lunch would be very nice, thank you," Cynara smiled and Elizabeth returned her smile, feeling the beginnings of a strong bond with the other woman. She and David then walked out into the early October night. As they drove, David stole furtive glances at Elizabeth. She seemed lost in thought, almost oblivious of his presence. He was reluctant to broach the subject, but the memory of his earlier fear made him go ahead anyway. "Liz, you seemed quite taken by this Doctor Simonovic."

"Yes. Actually, I'm very impressed. Cynara is a very unique woman. She's incisive and so... magnetic."

"You certainly became friendly in record time."

"Yes, I suppose that we have. She's asked me to consider undertaking some renovation work. David, it would be a real honor to work on a house like hers. A prestigious commission such as this one would be a spring board to a real expansion of my business. It's more than just a simple business matter, really. That house is like a symbol to me, an ideal. The fact that I was invited is thrilling, but to be asked to work on that house is the realization of a dream."

They drove the remainder of the way in silence, as Elizabeth slipped back into her private world of thoughts; one that evidently did not include him. He pulled the Olds to the curb, in front of her house and was about to shut down the engine, when Elizabeth said, "David, I'm really feeling quite tired. I'd like to go straight to bed."

"That's just fine with me," Stillman quipped, playing the lecher.

"Alone David." she retorted. There was an adamant, almost harsh tone to her voice that made him blink.

"I see," he said quietly, arching an eyebrow. "Are you sure that something isn't wrong, Liz."

"David, I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me that a good night's sleep won't cure. I'll call you tomorrow night, after my meeting with Cynara." She favored him with a brief smile and then opened the door and got out. She had neglected to even give him a good night kiss. As he watched her move up the walk to her door, it occurred to David that he was seeing a significantly different woman from the one that he had picked up some ten hours earlier. He could not say what was responsible for the change, but he suspected that it had something to do with this Cynara Simonovic. He threw the car into gear and drove away. Later, as he opened the door to his ratty motel room, a bleak depression settled over him. Something in her distant expression convinced David that for the second time in his life he had lost Elizabeth Simpson.

Chapter Six: Elizabeth and Sin

1

Elizabeth Simpson rose late Sunday morning, feeling refreshed. The digital clock on her night table informed her that it was 10:30. She had only two and a half hours before she was scheduled to meet Cynara for lunch. She climbed out of bed, beginning her morning routine by stripping off her pajamas and hopping into the shower. She loved piping hot showers as they always energized her. She was always amused by the sight of herself as she left the shower, very often looking like a lobster. The water sprayed out of the faucet, pelting her like hot little needles at first, then soothing and massaging her sleep stiffened muscles as she became accustomed to the temperature. She closed her eyes and slowly lathered her body, savoring the firmness of her breasts and the flatness of her stomach.

These pleasant sensations evoked memories of the sensory firestorm that had engulfed her when she had first touched Cynara. Elizabeth's sleep had been filled by a series of bizarre dreams, for which she could offer no explanation. Some of these were nightmarish, as some unseen blackness pursued her, rapidly gaining ground as she tried to flee. Others were pure ecstasy. These all involved herself and Cynara enjoying the tenderness of each other's favors. As the shower's steam and the scent of lavender drifted up around her, she could still visualize one particularly lingering dream from the previous night. The dream developed with a languid slowness. The women were alone in a room which was empty save for a large satin draped bed. Both women were nude and a thin layer of perspiration gave their skin a radiant glow. Elizabeth sat, with her eyes closed, on the edge of the bed. The feel of the black satin sheet was cool against her hot skin. Cynara knelt on the bed behind her. Elizabeth could feel the other woman's taut nipples as they brushed against her back. Cynara's arms encircled Elizabeth's torso, while her hands gently caressed the other's aching breasts. Elizabeth's head was inclined to one side and Cynara placed delicate kisses along the length of her exposed neck and throat. The silky feel of Cynara's long black hair against her shoulders caused Elizabeth to tremble like a leaf in the wind.

As she stood in the shower, her mind replayed the nocturnal movie with delicious slowness. The soap slipped from her hand without her noticing it. She caressed her nipples until they stood in response to her gentle stimulation. Her breathing became ragged and gradually her right hand traced a path from her full breast, along her flat stomach and over a curving thigh. All at once, she gripped the faucet and swung it all the way to the right. Cold water rained down upon her, making her shriek and leap out of the shower.

"Oh God! What am I doing?" she moaned aloud. She sat on the edge of the tub and propped her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. She seemed entranced. An alien desire had come to life within her and it was gaining control over her ability to reason. After she was certain that she had regained her composure, she entered the shower and rinsed off the remaining soap. This done, she hurriedly toweled herself off and padded back to her bedroom.

She was still puzzled by her behavior of the night before. The social part of the evening was a blur. She could remember conversing with different people, but about what she couldn't recall. The most vivid memories of the night were those of her encounter with Cynara. What happened to her when she had first met the other woman? It was a question that she couldn't answer. She could not dispute the fact that she had reached a powerful climax. The entire incident was shrouded behind a confusing fog. Elizabeth was perplexed by her reaction to the other woman. Cynara seemed to captivate her - she was that unique, that intriguing. If Cynara had been a man, then her reaction would have been understandable, but she was a woman and Elizabeth's reaction had still been blatantly sexual. Her reaction clearly implied that she harbor an intense physical desire for Cynara Simonovic.

This last thought simply blossomed in her mind and it stopped her in her tracks. Surely that was ridiculous. Elizabeth fashioned herself to be far too enlightened to find the notion of two women being in love with each other morally abhorrent. She believed that physical expression of a strong love between two people was a natural and beautiful act. She, however, had never been inclined to experiment in that direction. She had met several extremely beautiful women, but had never had the urge to know them on a sexually intimate basis. On a few occasions while attending college, she had been propositioned. She had declined those advances pleasantly, but firmly. Now she found herself gazing down a strange road which led to unknown terrain and finding that she had no idea how to proceed. Her guide word over the last three years had been caution and if ever there was a time when caution was warranted, it was now.

She dressed in gray knit slacks and a dusty pink sweater. After calling Mrs. Miller and promising to come and collect Nathaniel at five o'clock, she headed towards Cynara's. The sun was pleasingly warm for an autumn afternoon. Elizabeth backed her Toyota Tercel out of her driveway and headed into the northern rural area of Semelar. Cynara had left the gates open in anticipation of Elizabeth's imminent arrival. Elizabeth swung her Tercel through the gates and parked beside the Black XJ6 that David had admired the night before. She ascended the steps and was about to ring the bell when the door swung open and Cynara walked out onto the stone stoop. "Hello Elizabeth. I've been expecting you. When I heard a car engine, I thought I'd come out and meet you. Sorry to have startled you. Please come in."

Cynara turned and led the way into the house. She wore a black knit dress that was pinched at the waist by a thin silver belt. The belt was composed of a series of interwoven silver strands that reflected the light as Cynara moved. It served to draw attention to the enticing contrast between her tiny waist and her full hips. She led Liz into her study and sat her on a powder blue wingback. Then she took a seat behind the large oak desk. "I hope that you enjoyed yourself last night, Elizabeth."

"I did. It was a marvelous party. I really appreciate your invitation."

"Quite frankly, I'm glad that you decided to come. I also hope that you're feeling better. Your fainting spell gave me quite a start." Elizabeth could feel herself begin to blush. She quickly looked away, but could still feel the heat of the other woman's gaze upon her skin. "I'm fine, Cynara."

"Good. Then why don't we start off by looking at the area that I intend to renovate." They moved out of the library and back into the main hall. Elizabeth was surprised when they moved through the kitchen and out into the rear yard of the estate. They crossed the manicured lawn to a gravel footpath which led into the woods behind the estate. Elizabeth resisted the urge to question Cynara, instead choosing to enjoy the splendid view that the rear section of the estate afforded. They had walked along the path for about eighty yards when the trees opened up to reveal a white two story summer cottage. Elizabeth stopped as if she had run into an invisible wall.

"It's fabulous," she exclaimed, clearly delighted by the concealed structure.

Cynara smiled, evidently pleased by the other woman's reaction. "Indeed it is."

They walked up the stone walk and mounted the steps to the wooden porch, which ran along the full length of the house. Cynara produced a small key from her dress pocket and opened the front door. They crossed the threshold and Elizabeth was again taken by the unexpectedness of what was revealed within. The cottage was not a two story, but a single room that rose a full twenty feet above the main floor to form a vast chamber. The entire southern exposure was dominated by a vast bank of windows. The room was empty except for a solitary covered easel, which stood spotlighted by a shaft of brilliant golden sunshine. The two women crossed the floor and came to a halt before it. Cynara turned to face Elizabeth, who could see a spark of passion ignite in the other woman's eyes. "This is an annex to the property that few people know exist. It was built forty seven years ago. I've been told that the owner had a daughter who went mad. He was ashamed of her behavior, so he had this place built and kept her confined here. Finally, she hung herself. "

"God, that's awful," Elizabeth exclaimed, horrified by the idea of such deplorable cruelty.

"Yes, but it is a story, and like all stories, I would say it is best taken with a grain of salt. Then there are times, Elizabeth, when I have been working here alone and can sense an unnatural presence. It is as if some spirit has been entrapped here and is seeking a way out." She turned her face towards the bay windows. Elizabeth marveled at the fine detail of her profile, suspecting that her beauty was only the superficial manifestation of a complex and unique woman.

Cynara noticed Elizabeth's scrutiny and feigned embarrassment. "I'm sorry, but every now and then I'm given to flights of mysticism. This is my project. I would like to create a requiem for myself...a place where I can come to escape. I understand that everyone needs a place like that; a sanctuary where I am not required to be Doctor Simonovic, but just plain Cynara. That is what I've tried to create, in my own clumsy way, with these sketches that I've made. Please excuse the amateurism."

In a sweeping movement, Cynara removed the drop cloth from the easel. Elizabeth moved closer to examine the sketches. After a few seconds, a smile of admiration spread across her face. Cynara had designed what could best be described as a chamber of light and natural vitality. The pencil renderings depicted a blend of light woods, wicker and plant life, all located around a central fountain, which was positioned directly below a sky light. Elizabeth turned her astonished gaze back to Cynara, "Did you do these sketches?"

Cynara looked rather sheepish. "Yes, in my spare time, I've worked on a concept that I thought would suit this house."

"They're wonderful," Elizabeth said honestly, alternating her gaze from the sketches to Cynara and then back to the sketches again; seeing the woman from a new perspective. These were as good as anything that she, herself, could have produced. She told Cynara exactly this.

"You're just being kind," Cynara replied softly, but Elizabeth could see that the other woman was touched by her approval.

"Cynara, this work is beautiful by my standards, or by any standards for that matter," Liz continued, trying to convey her sincerity. It was suddenly important that this woman know that she was not being patronizing. Cynara saw this and acknowledged it. "Thank you. When I first sat down to work on these sketches, I had a specific picture of what I wanted to do. The main house is so formal, so conservative. It is an image that I like, but there are times when it can begin to feel rather stifling. I tried to create a place where I could hide from all of those restrictions and conventions. This is to be a light hearted place, where I can let my hair down and simply be a woman. If you can grasp that, then you'll be able to understand the essence of what I want you to do."

"I understand exactly what you want and if you give me the opportunity, I promise that the reality of these sketches will be even more gratifying than the pictures," Elizabeth assured Cynara. For a time, the other woman did not respond. She fixed Elizabeth with an assessing gaze, as if measuring the truth of her promise. Elizabeth refused to wilt under the pressure of that gaze. This must have satisfied Cynara, for she extended her hand "I believe that we have ourselves a deal."

Elizabeth took her hand and shook it firmly. The two women lingered for a moment as the sun streamed through the large windows. Elizabeth could feel herself being drawn to Cynara like a moth is drawn to a flame, although this was not an analogy that she would have cared to use. Despite her erudite manner, Elizabeth detected a primal and somewhat dangerous aspect lurking beneath Cynara Simonovic's reserved elegance.

2

Instead of going directly back to the house, they decided to meander around the grounds and enjoy the pleasant weather. They strolled back through the path and then along the tree line, which ran along the back of the lawn. They moved at a leisurely pace, saying nothing, only enjoying each others company. "Cynara, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Not at all, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth hesitated, trying to select the correct words. "Listening to you speak back there, I got the impression that you are under a great deal of pressure."

Cynara glanced at Elizabeth briefly and then looked away, towards the tall redwoods. "At times I feel restricted, penned in. When you're a doctor, the focus of your entire life is usually upon someone else. There is very little time left to deal with your own problems, so they have a tendency to grow and multiply. There's a tremendous frustration in seeing a patient slip away further into a sea of madness despite your every effort to reach them. I suppose that it's like coming to someone who's dangling over the edge of a precipice. They only have a hand hold and their grip is slipping fast, but you lack the strength to pull them up. You carry their falling scream in your mind for the rest of your life. Each failure kills a small piece of your soul."

"Something tells me that you haven't heard that scream too often."

"I've been fortunate. Perhaps success is in part determined by a person's tolerance for failure. The more painful one finds failure, the more driven they are to succeed. Above all of this, I find that there is also pressure from being a woman. For a woman in my position, there is no such thing as a reputation. Each new appointment means starting from the ground level and earning respect from everyone around you...respect they very often give grudgingly and with absolutely no tolerance for weakness, imagined or otherwise."

Elizabeth considered this as they continued along. "Cynara, forgive me if I'm out of line, but it seems to me that, despite all of your success, you're still rather lonely. Maybe isolated is a better word."

Elizabeth thought that she could detect a shimmer of pain ripple across the other woman's face. She could sense a longing in Cynara. "You are very perceptive. Maybe you should be the psychiatrist."

Cynara's response had been punctuated by a weak laugh, but beneath that thin veneer of laughter, Liz could hear her sob of desolation. This unexpected vulnerability touched Elizabeth deeply and she had to resist the urge to take the other woman in her arms and hold her. After a moment, Cynara continued, "When you're running a head long race for success, it's not difficult to lose sight of everything around you, even yourself. Finally, when I arrived, as it were, I looked around to discover just how superficial my live had become. Can you understand this Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth need only scan the mental scrapbook of the past three years of her life to know exactly what the other woman meant. In a somber voice, she replied, "Yes, I do."

"But it is more than just a matter of neglecting my social life. You see, for years I've had an image of the perfect love - a person that would love me for what I am and would live for me and through me...a person for whom I could do the same. I've never found anything even close to that kind of love. Still, I refuse to be discouraged and settle for something that is less than what I feel I deserve."

"Do you mean that you've never been in love?" Elizabeth blurted, staggered by the improbability.

"No, I never really have. Of course I've had lovers, but never for long and not for awhile now. Sex bereft of emotion is an ugly, mechanical exercise. My encounters always left me feeling unfulfilled and out of sorts with myself."

"But Cynara, you are the most beautiful woman that I've ever seen and certainly one of the most captivating. Surely you must be pursued by some of the most distinguished and charming men around?"

"Of course, but they see me as a symbol or a conquest. When you're wealthy or powerful, there is a tendency to see everything as a challenge to your power and its limits. Everyone is someone to be purchased, to be acquired." She looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes and her steely expression made Elizabeth flinch. There was a fierce determination there, an indomitable spirit.

"No one will ever own me, not ever," Cynara intoned fiercely and Elizabeth could almost hear the tigress growl beneath her words. She had seen her vulnerability and now she was witnessing Cynara's strength. It was this mettle that had made Cynara what she was. She had seen Elizabeth's recoil and was privately pleased by this reaction, but she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so intense. I just become so incensed when I think of the men who I've trusted only to find that they cared nothing for me. I've resolved that I'll never be used again. I'm certain that my romantic ideal exists. If such an ideal exists, then it is definitely worth waiting for. And what about you - is David the special person in your life?"

Had she been asked the same question only a day earlier, she would have answered with an unequivocal yes. Today, however, walking through the afternoon sunshine next to the most exotic and intriguing woman that she had ever met, Elizabeth found her feelings to be mixed and vague. She had the feeling that she had entered a vortex that had turned her equilibrium and perspective upside down. She said flatly, "I don't know. The whole thing is a rather long and confusing story and I'm sure that you hear enough of other people's problems everyday without having to listen to mine."

Cynara stopped and placed her hand delicately on Elizabeth's shoulder. "I do Elizabeth. I'd truly like to know, not just about that, but everything about you. You're one of the most refreshing people that I've encountered in some years."

The other woman's desire to know seemed genuine, as did her interest in Elizabeth. She was flattered to find that such an accomplished woman could find anything fascinating about a small town girl such as herself. Yet it was true. She could hear it in the Doctor's words and feel it in the gentle pressure that Cynara's fingers applied to her shoulder. She told Cynara everything. The entire story of her life and its trials and tribulations poured from her as if she were purging some long held poison. She spoke of David and then, as a sad counterpoint to that, her disastrous marriage to Dan. She was rather puzzled by the smoldering anger in Cynara's eyes as she related the details of Dan's attempt to dominate her. As she spoke of the emptiness of the next three years and the obstacles that she had overcome, tears boiled very close to the surface. She struggled to contain them with grim determination, not wanting to show her weakness in the presence of such a strong woman, not wanting to lose her respect. Cynara's opinion suddenly seemed very important to Elizabeth. When she had at last concluded her tale, she felt drained. Hooking her arm in her own, Cynara gently but firmly led her back to the other house. In the study, where they had first spoken the previous night, Cynara poured tea and served it to her guest in a delicate china cup. As Cynara handed the cup to Liz, she marveled at its fragile beauty.

"Elizabeth there are things I've discovered during the course of my life. Some are important and some are trivial, but the most significant insight that I have gained is an understanding of the way in which the world views women such as us. We are alone, so we can dispense with the artificial humility. You and I are both extraordinarily beautiful. We command attention wherever we go. Our beauty is coveted, though it is very seldom loved. A lot of people who pretend to admire us, in fact despise us, and as you've painfully learned, many derive a great deal of enjoyment from our misery. For us, more than anyone else, love, real love, is an elusive commodity. When real love does come along, it is essential that we latch onto it with both hands. Until you can say to yourself; this is something worth having, worth loving forever, you'll do well to keep a safe distance."

Cynara turned her gaze directly into the other woman's eyes. The gaze was intense; the golden flecks seemed to glow as if lit from within. Elizabeth could detect some deeper inference underlying the Doctor's words. It was as though she were speaking of the past, but intimating at a possible future as well. There seemed to be a pervasive aura of sexual tension surrounding the two women. She watched Cynara speak, seeing the bewitching rhythm of her moist, full lips as they formed each word. Cynara broke the gaze and looked down into the steaming depths of her tea cup. "One never knows when that perfect love is going to come along. Very often it is in a time and place well beyond our imagination."

They spent the remainder of the afternoon talking. Cynara described her life and some of the places that she had been. Elizabeth was astounded by the woman's knowledge of art, literature and life in general. She had seen and done things that Elizabeth had only read and dreamt about. Cynara was so cosmopolitan that Elizabeth began to feel like a hick. "Cynara, I feel so provincial next to you, like a little girl next to a lady."

Cynara fixed her with an exaggerated expression of exasperation. She set her cup down on the oak desk and came to sit beside Elizabeth on the leather sofa. She took the blonde's hand in hers and squeezed slightly. "Elizabeth, you are a beautiful and talented woman, who should feel inadequate next to no one. All that you lack is exposure to the things that will allow you to develop to your full potential. I know you, Elizabeth. I can see myself inside of you. This small town will never be able to hold you for much longer. You will outgrow it in time. Some intuition tells me that your life is going to turn onto a wonderful new course. A new Elizabeth Simpson is going to emerge and she is going to make the world take notice."

Elizabeth did not flush or look away. She instead tightened her grip upon the Doctor's hand. The compliment would have seemed extravagant coming from just about anyone else. Coming from this strange, wonderful woman it sounded like prophecy. Elizabeth looked down at her watch and gasped, "Oh God, it's twenty to five. I've got to pick up Nathaniel."

A brief flash of disappointment crossed Cynara's face. The expression mirrored the regret that leaving aroused in Elizabeth. Cynara walked her to the door and they said their goodbyes. "If it's convenient for you, Liz, we could meet for lunch Tuesday. We could discuss the renovations and any changes that you think my plans require."

"I would like that very much," Liz replied, constantly amazed by her ever growing affection for the other woman. As she turned to go, Cynara gripped her wrist and squeezed her hand again. In an oddly passionate voice, Cynara intoned "Goodbye Elizabeth."

Elizabeth did not respond, but merely smiled, feeling that any attempt to speak would betray the emotional fire storm that she was experiencing. She turned and walked down the stone steps on trembling legs. At her car, she turned and raised a hand. The Doctor beamed a brilliant smile in return. Watching Elizabeth drive away, Cynara's smile became a hard edge grin. Cynara turned and went back into her lair, inebriated with the reckoning of her imminent conquest.

3

Elizabeth drove to Mrs. Miller's and collected Nathaniel. She thanked Mrs. Miller for helping her as she went about her business. Mrs. Miller had been a Godsend for Elizabeth. She had always been available to mind Nathaniel at only a moments notice. Liz was greatly indebted to the older woman. Nathaniel was happy to see his mother. He ran to her and she stooped and swept him up in her arms. "Is Uncle David going to have supper with us, Mommy?"

"Uncle David is very busy, Nath. He won't be able to have supper with us tonight. How about you and I go to Burger King, just the two of us? Won't that be fun?"

"Sure, I guess," he replied, but she could see how crestfallen he was. She scolded herself for introducing David to Nathaniel so soon. At the time it had seemed like an excellent notion, but her meeting with Cynara had given her a whole new perspective on life. The Doctor had a way of taking complex problems and resolving them, making them seem simple. She loved David and always would, but he had betrayed her love once and it was always possible that he would do so again. David Stillman was an erratic man by nature and thus dangerous. She had somehow allowed things to move too quickly. This experience had taught her that despite her best efforts to do so, she still had no control over her emotions.

After supper, she returned home with the urgent feeling that she must quickly put her life back in order before she lost control again. Once Nathaniel was in bed, she called David. He answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

To Elizabeth he sounded anxious, as if he had been waiting for her call the entire day. "Hello David, how are you?"

Stillman frowned. She seemed cool and distant. The voice that he was hearing was not the voice of the woman to whom he had made love only two days before. "I'm fine, Liz. I've spent the day working on the novel and wondering how your meeting with Cynara was going."

"It went very well actually. She commissioned me to make some major renovations on her guest house. This is why I'm calling. I'm afraid that I'll be rather busy for the next few days. I've promised that I would have a set of preliminary proposals for her by Tuesday. If the work is going well, then I'll give you a call tomorrow. If not, then you'll hear from me on Tuesday, okay?"

"I suppose that it will have to be, Liz," David replied glumly, not bothering to disguise his disappointment.

"Good night David," she concluded and then hung up without waiting for a response. He looked at the telephone as if it were the key to some baffling mystery. The woman to whom he had just been speaking was a stranger. Elizabeth had never been so curt...not in all of the years that he had known her. Something about Cynara had affected Liz. He had no idea what that something might be. Even if he did, he suspected that he was powerless to do anything about it. He could only sit back and watch things develop, hoping that the old Liz, his Liz, would come back unscathed.

4

She strode down the long hallway, paying no heed to the oppressive gloom. This gloom was broken here and there by the dull glow of blue crystals, which were set into the ceiling at regular intervals. She had never been down this particular hall before, but she knew that her father's mansion had many rooms. She smiled at her perversion of the old Scripture. By rights, she should have come in the form of the beast, but she despised the brutish horror and avoided the transformation whenever possible. Her heels rang out with each step as the metal tips hit the stone.

An orange glow took shape somewhere off to the left. A heavy, metallic clanging provided a counterpoint to the sharp click of her heels. She turned into the small chamber coming to a halt about ten paces behind the room's other occupant. He stood with his back to her. He was forging a flat piece of iron on an anvil. She watched appreciatively as his muscles rippled with each fall of the hammer.

"Blacksmith!" Cynara called out. Her voice carried the unmistakable tone of authority that she had long since perfected. The hammer paused in mid swing. He glanced over his shoulder. Even for a creature such as Cynara it was difficult not to recoil. His face was a grotesque parody of a normal human face.

The skin was a mass of ugly white scar tissue, which hung from the bone as if it had sloughed under its own dreadful weight. One eye had been lost and the empty socket was filled with ruined flesh. The skin was mottled and black grime had accumulated in the deep cracks. Here and there, tufts of reddish brown hair grew out of the scalp.

The blacksmith laid the hammer aside and deposited the strip of iron into a bucket of water. The iron hissed as the steam rose up around it. He moved slowly towards her and, as he did, the thick slabs of muscle on his shoulders and chest danced. "What do you want here, woman?"

"I have a commission for you, tradesman," she replied. Coming forward, she offered him a sketch. He took it and scanned it briefly. A flicker of admiration darted across his face. "Quite lovely, but on whose authority do you bring this to me?"

Cynara seethed at the insolence that this insignificant minion displayed. "On my authority you miserable piece of refuse. If it is not done exactly to my specifications, I'll have what is left of your head on a platter."

His good eye widened slightly and then a malevolent gleam came into it. He swung the flat of his palm at Cynara, intending to smash her face. Meeting his challenge, she caught his wrist and held it fast. They stood this way for some seconds; bodies tense with exertion, each unwilling to relent. A grotesque smile broke across his face. Letting his hand fall, he said, "It shall be done."

He wiped both of his hands on his frock and took Cynara's sketch. "In return, a soul will be required as payment."

"It shall be done," she quipped, mocking him. "What do you wish?"

"A boy, a young boy." he replied with a terrifying smile. Cynara turned and walked from the chamber. She had won his admiration and was sure that the end result of his labors would be to her satisfaction. Her thoughts turned to Elizabeth Simpson and her ethereal beauty. Every moment spent in the blonde's presence made it difficult for Cynara to contain her lust. To her amazement, Cynara was finding that she did feel something more than just the need to possess the woman. She did not love her because it was unlikely that she was capable of that particular emotion. She did, however, feel drawn to the woman and that was more than she could say about any human that she had previously encountered. Now, the instrument that would deliver Elizabeth Simpson to her keeping was in the making.

5

The object of Cynara's machinations lay tossing fitfully; gripped by a horrifying nightmare. Elizabeth was lost in the midst of an underground labyrinth. A soft voice was calling to her and she was frantically attempting to determine where the voice was coming from. She could not, the maze was too large and the echo made it impossible to pinpoint the sound. Worse still, she could hear something moving in the darkness. Something was down here with her and though she had no way of knowing this, she was certain that it was not friendly. She paused and held her breath, but the sound of blood roaring in her temples made it difficult to concentrate. A faint call came again. "Elizabeth."

She was able to gauge it and set out towards it at a run. She turned corner after corner, but could see no egress in sight. Her lungs were screaming for air, but she was spurred on by the urgency of finding a way out. A dull light winked somewhere up ahead of her and she sprinted in its direction. Suddenly, a shadow crossed her path and she cried out. Never stopping, she veered off to her left and raced down the dark corridor. She was running head long in the darkness, when her feet became entangled and she was sent sprawling. Pain exploded in her chest as she thudded to the stone floor. She began to whimper, when an iron grip fell upon her shoulder. She screamed as she was turned over roughly. Her eyes must have become accustomed to the dull light because she could clearly see her pursuer's face. She was horrified to see David looming over her. He brandished a butcher knife and displayed every intention of using it. "You can try to leave me bitch, but you never will. You're going to stay here with me forever."

Some part of her mind insisted that this was ludicrous. David was incapable of hurting her, but the blade that he held looked razor sharp and she couldn't ignore that. He then raised the knife to the top of its arc, preparing to deliver the killing blow. He started to swing the knife towards her chest, but it stopped abruptly. There was a distinct crunch of bone and Elizabeth saw that Cynara had taken David's wrist and squeezed it until the bones had shattered. David grimaced in astonishment and agony, as the knife clattered harmlessly to the ground beside Elizabeth.

Cynara swept it off into the darkness with her foot. She released David's hand and he shambled off into the heart of the maze, screaming like a wounded animal. Cynara bent down beside the sprawled woman and tenderly lifted Elizabeth into her arms. She carried her through the maze and out into the light. Liz closed her eyes and nestled her head against Cynara's shoulder. Her eyes snapped open at the sound that came from the tunnel leading back down into the maze. David was skulking in the shadows, at the edge of the light. His demented eyes blazed. "You'll come back. This is where you belong. When you do, I'll be waiting for you."

Elizabeth awoke with a start, heart pounding in her chest as she crossed the line between dreaming and waking. She was bathed in sweat. It held her nightgown to her body as if it was a second skin. She rested her head in her hands, trying to calm down. The nightmare had terrified her, but it seemed to be more than a simple nightmare. It felt as if the dream was a symbolic portent. The imagery seemed to imply that David was a path back into the darkness of her past and Cynara was a path into a bright new future. After awhile, her heart slowed to its normal rate. The gown felt clammy against her skin so she pulled it over her head and discarded it on the floor beside her bed.

Elizabeth lay back, breathing in great gulps of air. She closed her eyes and at once, the beautiful image of Cynara filled her mind's eye. She stood on a pedestal, which rotated slowly, presenting the perfection of the woman from all angles. Elizabeth's chest began to rise and fall faster and faster. The pedestal ceased rotating and Cynara's eyes stared directly into hers. They were spectacular; indescribably beautiful. In those eyes, Elizabeth could see worlds of splendor and the realization of all of her dreams and fantasies - the promise of contentment within an attainable distance. She became lost in those depths.

Her hands caressed her breasts, then traveled along her stomach, teasing and arousing as they went. Unlike this morning, she did not stop or pull away. Her fingers brushed along her thighs, as the eyes spoke to her with a passion and eloquence that was irresistible. Her finger plunged into herself, seeking to give a physical expression to that passion. She turned her face into her pillow to muffle her cries of ecstasy, but, as she reached her climax, she cried Cynara's name, again and again. The cries were soft, but they rose up, borne on the wings of excitement. Up they went, through the night air, to the ears of the one for whom they had been meant.

"Soon now, Elizabeth darling," Cynara whispered, seconds before giving into her own fever.

6

The next morning, Monday, the horribly mutilated body of Alan Michaels was found in a drainage ditch. A sign, posted on a stake which had been driven through the body, proclaimed: "God is dead," The horror had begun again.

Chapter Seven: Neghev Strikes

1

Neghev had spent the days since his arrival trying to get a handle on the situation in Semelar. It would have been a simple matter to go in and liquidate Cynara Simonovic, but he was already responsible for the death of two innocent people and he was determined not to add another death to the list of indictments against him. He had covertly observed Cynara over the last eleven days. He was unable to establish any connection between her and the murders. She was a solitary woman, who spent a great deal of her leisure time alone. He had seen no one enter her home other than the tall blond lady who he could not identify. She visited Cynara on Sunday and had stayed for several hours. From a distance they seemed quite friendly.

Cynara seldom left the mansion, except to go to work. She usually went directly from work back to her home. There were no secretive late night excursions or anything else that could possibly indicate complicity in some evil scheme. Then again, there had been no murders since his arrival, other than the death of the reporter. He was more than a little reluctant to comply with Fabrizzi's sanction based on what he had observed thus far. That changed abruptly on Sunday night.

After the mysterious blond had departed, Neghev decided to spend no more than two additional days watching Simonovic. If he could see no indication of criminal activity, he would return home. He had seen nothing that could substantiate the Bishop's allegations. He would then return the retainer to the Bishop and go back to his old life, dismissing this as an interesting diversion. He had spent the first few nights stationed in the trees across the road from the Simonovic mansion. He discovered that the woman's bedroom was located around the other side of the building. He ran across the road and ducking low, moved along the fence. He continued along its perimeter, until he found a covered position adjacent to a well lit room on the second story of the house. Settling in the branch of a large redwood, Neghev trained his binoculars on the window and watched. Time dragged by and as the darkness gathered, Neghev began to feel drowsy. When his eyelids began to droop, he slapped himself across the face twice.

Just then, the bedroom window was pushed open. Cynara stepped into view and leaned out of the window, scanning the tree line at the rear of her property. Though there was no possible way that she could have seen him, Neghev could not shake the disquieting feeling that he had been frozen in a searchlight. He allowed a minute to pass and then looked back at the window. The window was empty. He was about to settle back, when a large, black raven flew through the double windows, circled once and flew off into the night. The bird was a raven; of that Neghev was certain. He had seen the bird often enough in the hell of his nightmares.

He lowered his binoculars and closed his eyes, searching for a plausible explanation for the bird's presence. He could find none. Cynara had not moved back to the window. It remained open, despite the late October chill. He considered this for a moment and then decided to risk a closer look. He climbed out of the tree and continued along the fence until he found what he was looking for. A large Redwood tree stood beside the ten foot fence. A branch extended over the fence, at a level of about fifteen feet above the lawn. Neghev scaled the tree and linking his fingers around the branch, moved hand over hand along it until he had cleared the spikes. Releasing his grip, he fell to the ground, rolling as he did. He scrambled to his feet and sprinted towards the house. He crept along the building, glancing into each window, but seeing no sign of life. As he came around to the front of the mansion, he could see that the black Jaguar was still in its designated parking place.

He paused by the front door, mulling over his next move. Normally, he would not have considered his actions to be prudent, but his mind kept insisting that he had reached a key juncture in the investigation. What he discovered here would determine, not only how he handled the Simonovic situation, but everything beyond that. If he entered the house and found the woman gone, he might be forced to re evaluate his entire concept of reality. If she was gone, then perhaps Fabrizzi had been right and he would have to change his opinion of the world and the supernatural world as well. As he thought about this, he came to understand that he had no choice. He would have to go inside.

Neghev went back the way he came until he was out of sight of the main road. He inspected all of the window casings, but could see no alarms set into the frames. He withdrew a small billfold which contained a selection of needles of varying lengths. He inserted the appropriate needle into the lock and after several seconds of jimmying, sprung the latch and swung the window inward. He searched each room on both floors, finding nothing. The house was as empty as a Pharaoh's tomb. As he stood gazing out of the bedroom window from which the bird had flown, he was forced to concede that he had just witnessed an inexplicable occurrence; one that could not be wished away by logic or misdirection.

Neghev made a final inspection of the house, just to be sure that he hadn't overlooked anything. Satisfied that he had not, he climbed out of the same window through which he had entered. Just prior to doing so, he triggered the gates electrical system, so that he could exit through the main gate. Once outside, he circled back to his station, opposite Cynara's bedroom window. He assumed his position and awaited the Doctor's return. Though three hours passed, he did not grow tired. His nerves were too jangled for sleep and his mind was alive with a thousand different notions and theories.

A screech tore through the silence of the night and the raven circled down out of the sky and through the open window. Neghev stood watching, trying to steady his shaking hands as they held the binoculars. Moments later, Cynara came into view, reached out and drew the window closed. The binoculars slipped from the Israeli's hands, as he fought to maintain his tenacious grasp on sanity. It was all true; he could not longer deny that. If this were true, then it was possible, even probable, that everything else that Fabrizzi had told him was also true.

The following morning, the radio provided the gruesome details of the discovery of Alan Michael's body. Neghev automatically drew the connection between the boy's death and Cynara's nocturnal adventure. In that moment, he sentenced her to death in his own mind. He would have tried to eliminate her on that very day, but his vigil of the previous few nights had robbed him of his alertness. This Cynara was a creature who possessed powers beyond his sensibilities and he would not move against her unless he had all of his faculties finely tuned. Neghev decided to rest Monday and make his assassination attempt the next day.

2

That fateful Tuesday dawned sunny and warm, but the town's mood was somber, even morose. Since the discovery of the Michael's body, the seventh violent death since the onset of the horror, the town had become an island of fear and paranoia. Neghev rose, pocketed his gun and three full clips of ammunition. He would tail Simonovic closely and when the opportunity presented itself, he would assassinate her. As he prepared himself, he wondered just how many people that the whore had killed over the years...how many defenseless children? He suspected that it might well be hundreds, if not thousands. He would do everything in his power to insure that she would not kill another. For the first time in his life, he was actually looking forward to the moment when he pulled the trigger and watched the bitch fall. He was looking forward to his moment of redemption.

3

There was someone else who was anxious to come face to face with Cynara, but for entirely different reasons. Elizabeth awaited her luncheon with Cynara, feeling both excited and tense. She had spent the previous day working diligently upon Cynara's sketches, attempting to refine them. Quite frankly, there was not a great deal of refining necessary and if Cynara approved the preliminary changes, Elizabeth could begin to acquire the materials for the job.

Yesterday had been spent trying to sort out her emotions and understand some of the cataclysmic changes that had befallen her. This proved to be a far more intimidating task than her work on the Simonovic mansion. Though she had not intended to do so, her mind had made the inevitable comparisons between David and Cynara. David was an enigma and although she loved him very much, she would always be leery of him. She knew that he loved her, but there was an unsettled part of him that made any long term relationship a precarious undertaking. Cynara, by contrast, was diverse, intelligent, and romantically idealistic. She compared most favorably to David. A part of her was baffled by the fact that she would even make such a comparison. She had decided to explore her relationship with Cynara and let it lead her where it may.

They agreed to have lunch at The Interior on Walterton drive. When Elizabeth arrived, Cynara was already seated. As Elizabeth entered the dining room, Cynara rose to greet her. Each woman was aware of the intense chemical reaction that occurred every time they came together. Cynara extended her hand and Elizabeth took it, squeezing it vigorously. "Hello, Cynara. I'm sorry if I kept you waiting."

"No, you haven't," Cynara assured, as her eyes moved appreciatively over the other woman's face and body. "You look lovely, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth, dressed in a glen check business suit which she had dressed up to look less austere, was pleased by the compliment. "Thank you, Cynara."

The two women sat and discussed the sketches and having decided that they were suitable, began planning the actual renovation and design work. When Elizabeth proposed drawing up a contract, Cynara replied, "There will never be a need for a formal contract between you and me, Elizabeth. Keep a record of all materials and labour and when the job is completed, bill me what you feel is fair."

As she said this, her eyes conveyed the impression that more was being discussed than a mere business deal. To anyone watching the two, and there were many who stole frequent furtive glances at the two beauties, the women would have seemed like very close friends. Their conversation was filled with laughter and very demonstrative. Each constantly reached over the table and touched the other's wrist and forearm. Very often these touches were lingering. Elizabeth felt well near intoxicated by Cynara's presence and judging by her reaction, Elizabeth suspected that she felt the same. The two were being drawn together in a way that was both physical and spiritual. Elizabeth could feel her passion mounting, and had little doubt that eventually this passion would erupt. Cynara was never very far from her mind now. Whenever Elizabeth closed her eyes, she could picture the amber eyed beauty in the throes of ecstasy...needing to be pleased and wanting to please in return. Elizabeth had plunged into a great and unexpected abyss. Sitting here, looking across the table at Cynara with her black hair cascading over her shoulders and her eyes glowing in the soft light, Elizabeth admitted to herself that she was in infatuated with the other woman.

She was pondering subtle ways of telling Cynara this and trying to discern whether the other woman shared similar feelings, when she first noticed the man with the ice blue eyes. Something about him sent a shiver in through her, which started in the pit of her stomach and spread through her veins like frigid water. He was quite conspicuous because of his deep tan. He was rather handsome, in a rugged sort of a way, but something about his demeanor froze her heart. Most alarming of all, he was watching the two intently. As she stole an occasional glance in his direction, she noticed that his eyes seemed to be trained upon Cynara. All at once, his eyes locked on hers and in those inscrutable, blue depths there shone the face of death.

Cynara noted Elizabeth's distraction and inquired, "What's the matter? You look as if you've just seen a ghost."

"There is a man sitting at the far end of the restaurant and he's been staring at us for some time now. I don't know why, but he seems so menacing. Don't look back Cynara. He seems to be staring directly at you."

The other woman did not turn. Nor did she appear frightened. "Elizabeth, it wouldn't be the first time that either of us has been watched in public. It used to make me nervous, but I've grown accustomed to it. It's best to simply ignore the ogling."

Elizabeth relaxed somewhat, but not entirely. Cynara, by contrast, felt a mild excitement spreading through her. He had come at last. The Jew was here. She was experiencing the same feeling as a playful cat that has just spied a mouse. She was forced to conceal the thrill of anticipation that she felt. "Elizabeth, why does this have you so disturbed?"

Elizabeth frowned. "Normally, I wouldn't even give it a second thought but with everything that happened, the killings and all, I guess that I'm just feeling a little paranoid."

Cynara considered this for a moment and then conceded, "That's understandable and it never hurts to be cautious."

Without warning, Cynara turned in her chair, until her back faced Elizabeth. The move was so unexpected that it brought a small cry from Liz. Cynara beamed a wide smile of welcome at the man, who's only response was a slight widening of the eyes. Neghev sat about twenty feet from the two women. He knew that he'd been spotted by the blonde. Then Cynara had turned to face him and to Neghev's amazement, had smiled. The woman was indeed the most beautiful that he had ever seen, but there was an insidious, arrogant quality to that smile. Something in that smile told Neghev that she knew exactly who he was and why he was here. There was no fear in that smile, only a perverted salutation. Neghev was assailed by a momentary twinge of disquiet.

Cynara turned back to Elizabeth, still sporting a hint of her smile. "That should dissuade him. He knows that we're on to him now. Very often, people of his kind are easily disconcerted, if they're confronted directly. They derive a certain kind of power from thinking that they're invisible. When you display knowledge of their presence, they feel disillusioned and just crawl away."

Cynara seemed so confident in this belief, but Elizabeth did not share her conviction. She chanced a quick glance back at the man, and Neghev looked up and directly at her. The menace had not disappeared, not a bit. "Cynara, please, this man doesn't look crazy, he looks worse. He looks cold and inhuman. I'm afraid, Cynara. We should do something."

"All right, Elizabeth. I'm going to leave and I want you to stay here. If he follows, then I want you to call the police. I'm going to return home, direct them there. If he is following me, they will be there to find out why."

Elizabeth could feel a cloud burst of panic explode within her. While she had to admire Cynara's courage, the prospect of her serving as bait for a potential madman horrified her. In that moment, Liz came to see the true depth of her feeling for this odd wonderful creature. "No, Cynara, for God's sake, you can't just make yourself a target. We could go together or call the police from here."

Cynara reached over the table and placed her hand on top of Elizabeth's. She applied a firm but gentle pressure to the hand. "If we both leave together and he is the killer, then we'll both be vulnerable. If we call the police now, what will we tell them? A man has been watching us? There's no particular crime in watching two beautiful women. Then, if he does want either or both of us, he'll just get us later. We have to draw him out. We owe it to ourselves and the community at large. We've got to do it, we have no choice."

Elizabeth knew that the other woman's words were logical, but the prospect of losing her, made logic a moot point. Cynara was adamant and Elizabeth saw little choice but to play along. "What do you want me to do, Cynara?

"I'm going to leave now. Try to act as if it were just a casual parting. Don't look directly at the man until I have walked out of the room. If he follows me, call the police at once. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I think so," she nodded, despite her misgivings.

Cynara stood and took Elizabeth's hand. She then smiled broadly and declared, in a deliberately loud voice, "Very well Elizabeth. Call me once you've acquired the necessary materials."

Elizabeth forced a smile and nodded. Cynara then turned and strode from the dining room. Several people watched her go; a tall attractive woman, dressed in a black, form fitting business suit. Elizabeth could see the man's eyes follow her across the room. He then looked suspiciously back at Elizabeth, who reached for her coffee cup, attempting to be as casual as possible. She raised her cup to her lips, fearing that her trembling fingers would fumble it and possibly alert the man to her awareness of his possible threat. Somehow, she did not drop the cup and when she again looked in his direction, he was signaling for a waiter. The waiter brought him his bill on a small brass plate. He took the bill and headed towards the door through which Cynara had just exited.

Elizabeth sat there feeling numbed by indecision. It could have been a mere coincidence that the man had left when he had, but was she willing to risk Cynara to chance? The answer was a resounding, unequivocal no. She rose to her feet on unsteady legs and knocked over her chair in the process. All eyes swiveled in her direction and she could feel her face turning red. A waitress rushed over to where she stood. "Is everything alright Ma'am?"

"Yes, I just feel a little light headed. Is there a telephone that I might be able to use?" she asked shakily.

Something in her words must have conveyed an undeniable exigency, because the waitress led her to the lobby. Elizabeth thanked her and picked up the receiver. She misdialed twice, growing more frantic with each failure. Finally, the connection was made and a smooth, professional voice came onto the line. "Hello, Semelar County Sheriff's Department. How may I assist you?"

She drew a momentary blank, but then, like water through a ruptured dam, blurted out, "Please, I think that he is going to kill her!"

4

Neghev quickly followed Cynara out of the dining room, but by the time that he had reached the lobby, she had already left the building. The surprise element of his assassination attempt had already been lost, but something about the blonde woman's frantic conduct told him that this might be his final opportunity to get near Simonovic. There was something in the way that Simonovic had smiled at him - something very disquieting, as if she was the only actor in the play who knew the final outcome. Still, he would have to ignore that and do what had to be done.

He ran into the parking lot, just in time to see Cynara's black Jaguar pull into the street. He jogged back to his own car and pulled out after her, trying to close the distance. His professional instinct was screaming that all of this was drastically wrong and that he was being led into an elaborately laid trap. Still he drove on. Up ahead, he could see that she had come to a halt at a red light. She drove north and Neghev assumed correctly that she was returning home. Mid-afternoon traffic was light and he followed her at a distance of about one hundred yards. Reaching into his glove compartment, he withdrew the silenced Beretta and placed it on the seat beside him. He was not sure how the blonde fit into all of this, but if he found that she was in league with Simonovic, he would remove her later.

Cynara swung her Jag through the open gates and moved up the drive, coasting to a halt some ten yards from the front door. Neghev drew his car over to the side of the road. Carrying the Beretta, he ran along the fence and then through the open gate. He had expected that Cynara would have entered the house by now, but she was still seated behind the wheel of her car. He could not shrug off the suspicion that he was being lured into a trap. Something was wrong. He was sure of that now. There was some deception, some trickery here, but what?

The door to the Jag opened and Cynara gracefully stepped out. "Hello Neghev, I've been waiting since that day in Rome. Finally we meet face to face. You are the Church's chosen white knight and I am the black knight. The time of battle is upon us."

Neghev walked slowly up the drive, slipping off the Beretta's safety as he went. Cynara saw the gun in his hand and to his infinite amazement, she grinned.

"I would say that you have me at a bit of a disadvantage," she observed with mystifying cheerfulness.

Neghev came to a halt fifteen feet from Simonovic. He raised the gun and aimed it at the valley between her breasts. Still, she made no move to flee. He closed one eye and prepared to fire, but then hesitated. Something about the way that she stood there, with her hands upon her hips, watching him in an almost absent manner, made it impossible for him to pull the trigger. He had killed, but he was not a remorseless killer. He derived no pleasure from the taking of life. Now, standing here, he found the idea of shooting an unarmed woman morally repugnant. Cynara saw his hesitation and laughed incredulously. "So the trained dog finds that he cannot do the dirty deed. Will wonders never cease? A killer with a conscience; imagine that. Well Neghev, perhaps a little incentive would help. I killed them all. I took the children and tore the little fuckers to pieces and drank their blood. It tasted like wine. It tasted like ambrosia. I enjoyed it so much that I have every intention of killing more of the worthless sacks of shit. Too bad your precious Delia wasn't around. It would have been heavenly to tear her little whore's heart out."

The sound of Delia's name coming out of the vile creature's mouth infuriated Neghev, driving him over the edge. He pulled the trigger twice and after a brief pause, a third time. The impact lifted Cynara off of the ground and spun her in the air as if she was a rag doll. She collided heavily with the driver's side door of the Jaguar then slid to the ground in a boneless sprawl. From where Neghev stood, he could see her left leg spasm and knew that she had been mortally wounded. He lowered the gun and crossed the space between them. He straddled her, steeling himself for what he would see when he flipped the body over. As he was about to bend down, he noticed that the flesh beneath Cynara's coat had begun to ripple and crawl. He blinked, thinking that his eyes had betrayed him; unable to accept the metamorphosis that was going on at his feet. The body was shrinking, drawing in upon itself, as if it were desiccating from the inside out.

Cynara began to tremble violently as though the nerves were being overloaded by a burst of electricity. Neghev regarded the whole process with a mixture of revulsion and fascination. He was hoping that the bullets would have dispatched the sadist and exorcised the madness from his life. In one fluid motion, he bent down and rolled the body onto its back.

"Oh God. JESUS CHRIST!" he moaned. Galina Neghev stared up at him. During her life, Galina had been a pretty woman, but this incarnation was a flawless beauty looking back at him with large emerald colored eyes. He stumbled backwards a step and placed a hand on his forehead. Then she blinked and her head rolled towards him with an audible creaking that made his teeth chatter. Her eyes came to rest upon him, but there seemed to be no recognition in those green depths. Then a light seemed to spark and she moaned, "Oh Zved, why, why have you done this to me? I love you and now you've killed me."

"No, I know what you are. You are not Galina," he cried wretchedly. How could you fight something capable of such debilitating illusions...something that could dredge the depths of a man's soul to find his worst sins and greatest weaknesses?

She fixed him with a bitter, scornful glare and began to unbutton her blouse. "Oh, how can you say that to me Zved? You took my life and my soul is yours, so please don't deny me."

The gun fell from his hands and discharged as it hit the paving stones. The bullet punched a hole in the side of the Jaguar. The Galina thing had pulled open its blouse to reveal a ruined torso. The mangled flesh hung in flaps from the rib cage. Here and there, Neghev could see bits of concrete and glass embedded in the muscle and organs. "Please Zved, can't you see that I'm in agony. Why won't you help me?"

Neghev could see the excruciating pain tattooed upon her face and he could feel his heart ache. All of the old loss came flooding back to him. Tears coursed down his weather beaten cheeks. The clinical part of his mind registered surprise at this. He thought that his capacity to feel pain had long since vanished.

"Zved, please, for the love of God, help me. It hurts...IT HURTS!" Galina wailed. Neghev had been virtually paralyzed, but the wretched moaning got him moving. Bending down, he closed the flaps of her blouse and kissed her cheek. She granted him a pained smile. In that smile, he could see that she was dying again. All that he could think to say was, "I love you, Galina."

"And I hate your fucking guts!" she hissed in response. Neghev recoiled as if he'd been slapped. Her hand shot up and caught his throat in a vice of flesh and bone. He opened his eyes to see that the face of Galina Neghev was gone...now replaced by Cynara's. All of her pretensions of civility were gone, as she glared at Neghev with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred. Neghev was shocked by her strength. The pressure of her grip had cut the supply of blood and oxygen to his brain and he was rapidly losing consciousness. He tugged fruitlessly upon her wrists, but her grip would not relent. He could feel his head pounding and his eyes bulging. He formed his hands into cups and clapped them over Cynara's ears. Her eyes registered pain and her hold upon his throat loosened a touch. He then brought his hands up and out in twin arcs and broke her grip completely.

He staggered back, gasping and choking, as he clutched at his aching throat. Cynara's right foot pistoned out and caught him in the sternum. There was a sharp snap in his chest, followed by a white hot flare of pain. Neghev fell to one knee and as he did, Cynara sprang to her feet with the quickness of a panther. He looked up, still holding his injured chest. She towered over him, like an old time prize fighter waiting for her opponent to rise from the canvas. He charged at her, driving his shoulder into her stomach. It felt as if he had hit a wall because she didn't budge an inch. Before he could react, he was being lifted into the air and thrown as if he were a ball. He crashed into the window of the Jaguar, shattering it before sliding to the ground in a hail of glass. He had the presence of mind to realize that he was in desperate peril now and that he had to get away and regroup. He attempted to scramble under the Jag, but before he could, Cynara seized him by the hair and pulled him to his feet.

"I'm disappointed. I expected more of a challenge. I hate being disappointed," she snarled. She hit him with five successive rapier punches, snapping his head back each time. Each punch tore his skin, until his face resembled a blood spattered road map. Her eyes blazed with a malicious delight and he knew that it would give her extreme pleasure to simply beat him to death. Blood ran into his eyes, stinging him and robbing him of his vision. He resigned himself to the fact that he had failed and was about to die. Cynara exclaimed disgustedly. "Enough of this foolishness!"

She drew back her right fist and smashed him in the face. His nose mashed against her knuckles and blood spurted in jets of crimson. Neghev fell to the ground as if he had been hit by a twelve pound sledgehammer. Cynara kicked him in the face and he heard something shatter in his left cheekbone. She paused to admire her work. Neghev's face was a ruin. Islands of swollen flesh had risen out of a sea of blood that washed across his skin. Cynara gasped apologetically, "Look at what I've done. I do have a tendency to lose my temper on occasions. Even worse, when I get mad, I become a bit cruel."

She looked about and noticed the Beretta lying forgotten on the ground. A wicked smile spread across her face. She glided over to where it lay and gracefully retrieved it. She gave it a cursory inspection and then aimed it towards Neghev's head. "Such an ironic twist, wouldn't you say Neghev. I'm going to kill you with the very gun that was meant to have killed me. I'm going to send your head back to that cockless bastard, Fabrizzi. I've arranged a special place in hell for you, Jew."

Cynara took deliberate aim and was about to pull the trigger, when a shriek came from behind her. "No Cynara, don't, please don't shoot!"

5

After Elizabeth had convinced the Police dispatcher that she was not a crank and that Cynara Simonovic was in grave danger, she had ran to the parking lot. Much to her alarm, she could see no sign of Neghev or Cynara. She quickly jumped into her Tercel and went off in pursuit of the two. Cynara had said that she would lure the man to her mansion and Liz prayed that she would abide by that intention. Something in the man's ice blue eyes spoke of a murderous competence. Elizabeth doubted that Cynara would survive a direct confrontation with him.

She drove recklessly through town, hoping to attract the attention of a police cruiser without killing herself or someone else. The fact that she was able to avoid a collision was a small miracle in itself. As she approached the gate to the Simonovic property, she spotted a strange car parked on the side of the road. She pulled to a halt and ran over to it. There was no sign of the owner anywhere and Liz was struck by the sinking suspicion that she was already too late. She crept cautiously along the fence and hid behind one of the stone pillars near the gate. A hush had fallen over the afternoon and large gray clouds were scudding across the sky.

At once, the muffled report of a hand gun shattered the silence, followed by the crash of metal on metal. A low moan escaped her throat and she peered around the edge of the brick pillar. To her surprise and admittedly to her relief, Cynara was pummeling the man with the adroitness of a boxing champion. The man fell to the ground and even from this distance Elizabeth could see it was unlikely that he would regain his feet.

She emerged from her shelter and was about to call out to Cynara, when Elizabeth saw the other woman retrieve the handgun and aim it directly at the fallen assailant. Though she had her back to Elizabeth, something about her predatory posture told Liz that she had every intention of using the gun. Seeing this, she began to run, hoping to intervene before it was too late.

"No Cynara, don't. Please don't shoot!" she screamed. Cynara was a fraction of a second away from pulling the trigger. The blood lust was upon her and the adrenalin of the kill was running rampant in her brain. When she heard the cry, she swung around and trained the gun upon the caller. Her rage had blinded her and at first she did not recognize the person charging towards her. Then the haze cleared and she saw the puzzled face of Elizabeth Simpson staring back at her with outright terror. Cynara's heart began to race. She had come to within a fraction of an inch of killing her coveted one. Worse, how could she explain what she had been about to do? She began to tremble violently and let the gun fall from her hand. From where he lay, bloody and dazed, Neghev could see she let it fall only after she had clicked on the safety.

Elizabeth could see Cynara's body being wracked by a series of tremors. She was obviously distraught to the point of near hysteria.

"Oh God, Elizabeth. I thought that you were another one like him," Cynara said through her tears and gestured back at the man, who lay beside her Jaguar. Elizabeth looked from Cynara to Neghev, unable to fathom what might have transpired. There was something fundamentally wrong with this scene, but Liz could not figure out what that might be. Cynara was standing in the drive with a questioning expression on her tear stained face. "What's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that, Elizabeth?"

A tiny voice whispered to her then. It told her that she should turn and run back to David and the life that they could share together. She was caught in a tug of war...not knowing what to do. Cynara extended her arms beseechingly and cried, "Liz, please. What is wrong?"

That anxious, mournful tone made Elizabeth ignore the warning voice and run to the other woman. They embraced and Cynara sagged into her arms, burying her face against Elizabeth's neck. She watched Neghev, as she tried to console the sobbing woman in her arms. His face was a parody of a normal human face. He was watching her, she could tell because his eyes gleamed through the mask of blood. As Neghev observed the two women, he gained some new insight into why Cynara Simonovic had come to Semelar. Her whole ruse of playing the traumatized victim was for the other woman's benefit. Though he did not know why, it was now obvious that her presence here had something to do with the blonde beauty. In the seconds before a wave of pain carried him into the void of unconsciousness, Neghev realized that he was fortunate not to be that woman.

Chapter Eight: The Price of Failure

1

Life and the events of the world can be like the tides; they can flow back upon themselves, over themselves and even through themselves. Perhaps people and their moods can be described in the same terms. Who among us can escape the ebb and flow of the human spirit? Avery Mathis may have been pondering that very question as he sat behind his desk on the Thursday after Simonovic's clash with Neghev. On Tuesday night, in the face of a sea of microphones and television cameras, Avery was jubilant and greatly relieved. He was intoxicated with the conviction that the nightmare in Semelar was finally over. Now, less than forty eight hours later, he had plunged back into a bitter depression.

It would have been convenient to declare Lewis Freedman the man responsible for the killings and disappearances. It was what Mathis wanted to hear. In truth, it was what everyone wanted to hear. Yet, from the first moment that he had seen the man's battered face as he lay in his hospital bed, Mathis knew that Freedman was not responsible for all of the killings, if any of them. His innocence was written in the grotesque contours of his battle scarred face. Though Avery knew that instinct could be mercurial, his instinct now told him that the killer remained at large.

When he had arrived at the Simonovic mansion, Avery discovered a distraught Doctor Simonovic being consoled by Elizabeth Simpson. The assailant, later found to be one Lewis Freedman, lay insensate upon the paving stones. The rental car had led them to the name Lewis Freedman. The name had led them to the house on Ford Drive. A search warrant had gained them access to the house where the notes and newspapers had been discovered – circumstantial evidence that could have easily implicated Freedman. It should have ended there, but Mathis was cursed with a curious soul that would not rest until it was secure in the knowledge that justice had been served. While the Mayor, town council and just about every one else celebrated an end to the blackness, Mathis had delved a little deeper into the anomalous Freedman's background. Now he knew that Freedman was innocent of everything but the attempt on Cynara Simonovic's life.

Freedman had arrived in Semelar only two weeks before. He had been in the United States for only three weeks. The first two murders had taken place well before that. A thorough search of his house could produce no evidence that would directly link him to any of the crimes. The highlighted newspapers were nothing more than a morbid chronicle and not concrete enough to convict a man of multiple murders. The only thing that Freedman provided was another set of unanswered questions, but at least he now had someone to direct those questions at. Why had he tried to kill Dr. Simonovic? Mathis would not have an answer to that one until the man regained consciousness...if he ever did. His condition was a mystery in itself. How had Simonovic inflicted so much punishment on the man while sustaining none herself? The physical damaged that Freedman sustained was simply incredible. He suffered from a broken nose, three broken ribs, a cracked cheekbone and an impacted testicle. In addition to this, he had been cut and bruised until his face resembled a New Jersey road map. The woman had come to within a hair of beating him to death. When asked to recall what had occurred, Doctor Simonovic claimed that she had no clear memory of anything after she had kicked her attacker in the groin. She said that she had lashed out blindly thereafter and had not stopped until he hit the ground. By the looks of Freedman, it wouldn't be outrageous to say that she had probably given him a few shots after he had fallen. Mathis knew that it was not uncommon for a severely frightened person to display extraordinary strength, but this seemed too extreme for even that.

Freedman's Beretta had been discharged four times. One bullet was found in the body of the Doctor's Jag, but the other three had vanished without a trace. Where had they gone? Mathis hadn't a clue. Like everything else in this case, their disappearance was a mystery. Perhaps his staff sensed his growing doubts because they avoided him as if he was a leper. Everyone was content to accept the congratulations they were receiving as the town breathed a collective sigh of relief, leaving Mathis to wallow in his own sense of impending catastrophe.

It would have been so simple to ride things out and let Freedman take the fall, hoping that the killings would stop. Mathis was in desperate need of a respite. As easy as it would be, Mathis knew that he could not do it. He felt obligated to go to the Mayor, a man who he intensely disliked, and tell him that the killer was in all probability still at large. He knew the reaction that this was likely to provoke. Some people were willing to go to any lengths to believe that everything was alright, even if it meant ignoring the truth. He sighed, knowing that any reaction was immaterial. His every minute of inaction inched another person closer to an unspeakable death. First he would go to Freedman. The man just might be the crucial key to unlocking an apparently unsolvable puzzle.

2

The first thing that he became aware of was the massive pounding in his head. His face felt as though it was a giant rotten tooth that had been exposed to cold air. He tried to shift slightly, but a bolt of pain flashed through his chest. He had hung in the gray area between coma and waking for two days. His body scratched and clawed its way back to consciousness, despite his mind's indifference to continue living. As he regained awareness, the images of how he had suffered these injuries flashed through his mind with graphic clarity. His only reaction to his pain was dejection. He had failed and with that failure went his one opportunity for redemption. The witch still lived...free to kill again.

The second thing that filtered through the haze was the faces of the two men who sat watching him. One was an older, distinguished looking gentleman, with silver hair and light blue eyes. The other was a younger man, whose most distinctive feature was his eyes and the large black bags beneath them. The man appeared to be thoroughly exhausted, but beneath that exhaustion, Neghev could discern a debilitating combination of despair and self contempt. The man looked haunted and that haunting was eating at him like a cancer. Neghev tried to speak, but his throat was parched. The older man noticed his discomfort and poured him a glass of water from a metal pitcher which stood on the bedside table. He leaned forward and held the straw to Neghev's cracked lips. The Israeli drew slowly on the straw. After he had satisfied his thirst, he asked, "Where am I?"

"You're in the Semelar County Hospital. I am Jonathon Ashford and this rather tired looking gentleman is Sheriff Avery Mathis. Incidentally, I'm a lawyer. You've spent the last two days in a semiconscious stupor, during which time you expressed the wish to have a lawyer appointed to you. I've agreed to serve as your council, if you still wish to retain a lawyer. I believe this would be your best course of action.

Neghev looked into the man's face, where he saw a hint of the character that he so admired in Fabrizzi. "I have no lawyer of my own, so I guess that you'll do as well as any."

"The Sheriff is here to read you your rights before we proceed," Mathis read Neghev his rights and as he did, Neghev pondered his uncertain future. He had failed and the price of that failure would be high regardless of whether he was tried here or returned to Israel.

"Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?" Mathis concluded. Neghev replied that he did. Mathis continued, but Ashford interrupted him. "Avery, perhaps we should dispense with the formalities and get to the point. I suspect that Mr. Freedman would be most interested in what you have to tell him."

Avery stared at Ashford for a moment and then nodded. The lawyer turned his cool, dispassionate gaze back to Neghev. "Lewis, you're in desperate trouble. There is little point in denying that you're not. The extent of your predicament depends solely upon you and your willingness to cooperate with myself and the Sheriff. I strongly recommend that you wave your right to remain silent and speak candidly to Avery."

"What exactly are you trying to say?" Neghev asked.

"There is a whole contingent of people who are chomping at the bit to nail you to the cross. They all want to see you hang for the entire package of murders here. The Sheriff and I are the only people standing between you and that rather nasty fate."

Neghev smiled, amused by the irony of his situation. He had come here with the intention of killing a butcher and now he was on the verge of being labeled a butcher himself. "For some reason, you two gentlemen can and will help me. Why?"

It was Mathis who spoke this time. "Because we know that you're innocent of everything but the Simonovic murder attempt. You weren't even in the country when the first two murders were committed. Some professional instinct tells me that you have an idea what's happening to this town. If we're going to help you, you are going to have to come clean with us first. The first thing that I have to know is why did you try to kill Doctor Simonovic?"

"Do you people really want the truth or are you just looking for an easy answer. If you want a simple solution then you should convict me. Perhaps it would be the best thing to do for the sake of your sanity."

"Don't fuck with me!" Mathis bellowed. "People, children, are being killed and I think that you may know why. Goddamn it, you're going to tell me or I'll see you hang."

Mathis went red, livid with fury and frustration. Ashford held Mathis by the shoulders and shepherded him towards the door. "I think that it would be best if you let me speak to Mr. Freedman alone."

Mathis left the room, sparing Neghev one final rueful glance. Ashford turned back to Neghev and said, "Mr. Freedman, that is one desperate man and I would take his threat very seriously. His job is on the line and more importantly, so is his self esteem. He believes that you are innocent and he wants to spare you from a kangaroo court. His main priority is finding out who is killing his town. He believes that you can help him do that and if he is correct, I join him in imploring you to do so."

"You remind me a great deal of another man that I know," Neghev responded. "A man I respect a great deal. He once told me that in order to accept certain things, it would first become necessary to open my mind. I can tell you the same thing. There are times when a lie is much easier to live with than the truth. I did not believe what this man had told me. I was much too narrow minded. I believe him now; the truth of what he told me has been carved into my hide. Do you really want to know the truth, Ashford? Or do you want a nice neat explanation that you can conveniently categorize?" Neghev's stare, cold and assessing, delivered his challenge.

"Tell me the truth," Ashford replied evenly. So Neghev did. Over the next two hours, he repeated everything that Fabrizzi had told him, with the exception of anything that involved the Catholic Church. He told his tale in a flat inflectionless voice. When he was through, he waited calmly for Ashford's reaction. He really didn't expect the man to accept any of what he had just told him and in his own mind, he didn't really care one way or the other. Ashford stood and paced slowly about the room, lost deep in thought. "To put this all in perspective, you're telling me that you've been sent here by a group of people who believe that Doctor Simonovic is a demon from hell. This group has retained you to eliminate her?

"Yes, that is precisely what I am telling you," Neghev replied flatly.

"Who are you, really?" Ashford demanded. His eyes had narrowed to slits.

"It really doesn't matter, does it?"

"Do you think that I can possibly defend you on the basis of what you have told me?"

"No, of course I don't. There is no real need to defend me. You've asked for the truth and I've given it to you. Believe me or dismiss me as crazy, the choice is yours. I shot Cynara Simonovic three times in the chest from twenty feet away and she was able to do this to me. When you examine it from this perspective, then maybe my explanation is the only one that makes any sense," Neghev concluded.

"I can be of no help to you legally, but with what Sheriff Mathis has learned, it is not possible for the State to charge you with all of the murders. Alright, for arguments sake, let's suppose that I accept your theory about Doctor Simonovic. The question then becomes, why here in Semelar?"

"I could reply with the standard sardonic answer of why not? Why Semelar or why anywhere? I have no way to substantiate this, but I think that her presence is in some way motivated by that blonde woman that she was with when I was taken to hospital."

"Elizabeth Simpson?" Ashford exclaimed with utter disdain. "Surely, you are not implying that Elizabeth Simpson is in some way connected to Satanism and murder?"

"No, I am not. I've watched Cynara for the past few weeks and I have the feeling that she has some greater design for this Elizabeth Simpson."

Ashford sat down on the foot of Neghev's bed and looked out the window. The day was overcast and a light drizzle had begun to fall. _'This man is mad.'_ he thought. He has to be. What he is saying is sheer lunacy. Ashford gazed into the man's battered face, trying to divine the insanity that must surely be there. Try as he might, he could see no madness - only a grim fatalism. He had met Doctor Simonovic at her party. He had conversed with her briefly and had found her to be a cultured, intellectual woman. It was inconceivable that she was a blood thirsty savage, let alone a demon from hell. Yet, when he listened to Freedman speak, he could detect no deliberate attempt to deceive. If Freedman's story was a lie, Freedman did not know it. Ashford was caught in a quandary. He couldn't accept or refute the man's contentions. The man was right - it would be more convenient to simply dismiss him as a lunatic. Instinct warned against any hasty conclusion. He could not reject his claim for ethical reasons, but also because what the man had told him titillated his imagination. Freedman must have sensed the lawyer's dilemma, because he added. "Of course, I forbid you to relay this information to anyone else; not that they would believe you, even if you did. Perhaps, you could direct Sheriff Mathis' attentions in the right direction."

"And how should I go about doing that?" Ashford asked.

"I've attempted to kill Cynara Simonovic and you have asked me why. I'm sure that Sheriff Mathis has asked himself the same question. Maybe he should look for a common denominator in some of the other cases. The Catholic Priest is still alive and perhaps he should be questioned again. Ask him if he has ever seen Cynara Simonovic. The boy, Jimmy Simms, is still alive and Mathis could ask him if knows the good Doctor. He just might stumble upon the truth by chance, if he has a notion of what he is looking for. Maybe he would. It isn't likely that you'll find anything that could indict her, but you may well find a pattern, like little lights coming on in the back of your mind. You, Ashford, could do even more to convince yourself. I've provided you with a specific series of examples; now you can confirm them. I'm not asking you to do this for my benefit. Do it because you want to save your town."

Ashford stood and walked towards the window. With his back to Neghev, he said "I'm going to do just that. This town is slowly dying and I would hate to see that happen. I like it here. I don't know who or what you are, Mr. Freedman, but I've always fancied myself to be a good judge of character and my judgment tells me that you are not a psychotic killer. I don't know if I can accept your story, but I may be able to buy a part of it. You'll be hearing from me soon, Mr. Freedman."

With this, Ashford turned and strode from the room. When he was alone, Neghev closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The battle was no longer his to win.

3

Elizabeth Simpson was worried. She was concerned because her friend seemed to be falling apart before her very eyes. She sat in a chair beside Cynara's bed and watched the woman. Cynara wrung her hands repeatedly, until the long elegant fingers were red and raw. "Why? Why would he try to kill me, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth could provide no legitimate answer to the question, but tried to console the woman as best she could. In the last two days, Cynara had alternated between a morose depression and a kind of frantic paranoia. Elizabeth had been there to soothe her and she had succeeded in calming her, but she found her heart being ripped apart by the other woman's misery. "You're safe Cynara. He's behind bars now. We're all safe because of you. You're a heroine. You confronted a killer, unarmed and subdued him. There is no way that he can hurt you now."

"I was so frightened," Cynara whispered and then burst into tears. Liz rose from her chair and took the other woman in her arms. She held Cynara tightly, feeling her tremble against her chest. "No one is going to hurt you, Cynara. I promise that no one is ever going to hurt you."

In the conspiratorial gloom, Cynara smiled, knowing this was truer than she could ever know.

4

Jonathon Ashford waited for the receptionist at the UCLA History Department to put through his call. His heart was thundering like a drum. The more he considered what Freedman had told him, the more excited he became. What Freedman had told him was deeply disturbing, but it was also immensely intriguing. Was he actually entertaining this Demon nonsense? At Ashford's request, Mathis had used his police contacts to confirm that Freedman had correct in his claim that Cynara Simonovic had been a resident in five towns where a series of brutal slayings had taken place. As Freedman had further suggested, no connection had ever been made between the Doctor and the rash of murders. Despite this, Ashford found the frequency of her nearness to a series of similar episodes of satanic violence too high to be mere coincidence. She had done nothing to implicate herself in these murders, thus any connection to them could easily be overlooked unless you were specifically searching for it.

"Hello, History Department, Simon Hanlan speaking."

Ashford had been wool-gathering and he was startled by Hanlan's abrupt greeting. "Hello Simon. This is Jon Ashford speaking. How are things in the relic department?"

"Jon, Damn, how the hell have you been?" Hanlan exclaimed, seemingly pleased to hear from Ashford.

"I've been okay, actually."

"Hey Jon, when am I going to see you, anyway?"

"I have business in LA early next week and if you'll be there, I'll stop by and see you then."

"That would be great. You know, if you let it, time passes so quickly. You'll bump into a close friend and realize that you haven't actually seen them in years. Life is funny that way, I guess."

Ashford smiled to himself. He remembered that Hanlan had always loved to wax philosophic. "Simon, I'm calling for a little professional help. Your specialty is eastern European history, is it not?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I'm interested in accumulating some information on the family of a nineteenth century Baron name Saravic. Does that name sound familiar?" Ashford asked, holding his breath. Freedman's tale had definitely ignited something in the lawyer.

"It does vaguely. I think I've come across that name. How soon do you need this information, Jon?" Simon asked. His enthusiasm was evident through the miles of cable between them. Historians viewed history in the way that most people thought of sex.

"I would really appreciate it if you could fix me up as soon as possible."

"Okay, give me about a half an hour and I'll get back to you."

"That'd be fine, Simon," Ashford replied and then hung up. He idly leafed through a few papers, trying to pass the time and pacify his mounting agitation. He felt as if he were on the verge of something major, something that might force him to re evaluate his entire outlook on the world. Ashford could not decide if the prospect terrified or exhilarated him. The phone rang and he snatched it up. "Hello, Jonathon Ashford speaking."

"Hi Jon. It's Simon. I'm sitting here, unable to believe how dense I can be. You know I really am getting old. About fifteen years ago, I did a research paper on the entire Saravic quasi dynasty. Okay, I'll just give you a quick synopsis of the entire story. The Baron's name was Emile Saravic. He obtained this Barony as a reward for his actions during one of the endless local wars. He ruled his modest pittance for twenty seven years until his death in 1850. He had three children. His only son died in a riding accident, leaving him with two daughters, Alasha and Cynara. Alasha was beheaded in 1850 for allegedly poisoning her father. This left only Cynara, who was by far the most interesting of the entire bunch. She succeeded her father and ruled the Barony through a policy of repression and indiscriminate murder for the next twenty years. She disappeared when the area was overrun in a regional conflict.

"Cynara was killed in this war, then?" Ashford asked. This was indeed the salient question, wasn't it?

"That point is debatable. Her Manor was burnt to the ground, but no trace of her body was ever found. It is generally assumed that she was killed in the fire, but her death was never been verified, one way or the other."

"You said that Cynara was the most intriguing, why was that?"

"From a historical perspective, she was interesting because she was a barbarian and a sadist. The major remnant from her reign was a book by her Guru, a lunatic named Morgan. The book details some of her escapades and portrays her as a supernatural priestess or a Satanic Goddess."

A Satanist, there it was, Ashford thought, but was it possible that Cynara Saravic and Cynara Simonovic were one and the same. "Just one last question; do you have any idea what this Saravic woman might have looked like?"

"The book by Morgan featured a portrait of the woman, If the portrait is in any way representative of her true appearance, then she must have been an impressive beauty. She had the most bewitching brown eyes. Small specks of gold swirled into the brown to produce a rather dazzling effect."

"Jesus Christ." Ashford whistled then winced. The remark had slipped out before he could contain it.

"What is it, Jonathon? What's suddenly got you so interested in this Cynara Saravic? Have you been seeing ghosts or what?" Hanlan quipped.

"Maybe I have Simon...just maybe I have. Listen, I've got to go. Thank you for the help." Ashford replied distantly. They exchanged promises to see each other soon and then hung up. It was all true. He was sure of that now. He sat in silence, staring out of his window until the night gathered around him.

5

Avery Mathis wheeled his Crown Victoria patrol car into the Semelar County Hospital parking lot. He wondered if this was how a drowning man felt as he was grasping at the last of all possible straws. Jonathon Ashford had emerged from Freedman's room with a rather unfathomable expression set upon his face. He had suggested to Mathis that it might be prudent to question both Jimmy Simms and Father McMannon. He went on to intimate that there might possibly be some obscure connection between these people and Cynara Simonovic. When Mathis had pressed Ashford for an explanation, he had refused to elaborate. "You're going to have to trust me on this one, Sheriff. Just question the two. Ask them if they know of Cynara Simonovic or if they might have ever seen her. After you've done this, we can discuss how to best proceed from there."

Mathis had reluctantly agreed, mostly because he had nothing better to go on. His willingness to play along with Ashford delayed the need to inform the Mayor that Freedman was not the satanic killer. He approached the receptionist and presented his shield. He had decided to pursue this matter in plain clothes.

"How may I help you Sheriff?" she inquired. Beneath the cordial facade of detached pleasantness, Mathis thought that he could discern an under riding tension.

"I'd like to speak with Father McMannon."

The secretary appeared momentarily flustered. "I'm afraid that this would require clearance from the Facilities Director and she won't be in until tomorrow."

Mathis leaned over the desk and spoke in a low ominous voice, "I want to speak to Father McMannon. He is a murder suspect and should you try to stop me, your actions could be construed as an obstruction of justice. Do you understand?"

His no nonsense tone must have conveyed some of his simmering frustration, for she recoiled as if she had been slapped. Mathis felt guilty about using such intimidation tactics, but he was at the limit of his tolerance. She buzzed him through to the duty nurse, who greeted him at the locked doors with a scowl on her face. He greeted that scowl with one of his own and she quickly looked away. He was led through the antiseptic corridors, into a white room with a marble floor, where he was asked to be seated until Father McMannon was brought to him.

After a five minute wait, McMannon was escorted into the room by two stony faced attendants. They placed the near catatonic priest on a chair opposite Mathis then stood back as if they intended to remain in the room. "You two can wait outside. I'm sure that I'll be fine."

The pair exchanged uncertain glances and then shuffled out of the room. Mathis turned his attention to McMannon. He was shocked and dismayed by the changes that had overcome the man during the time of his confinement. He remembered the Father to be a robust, vital man, but he had lost at least twenty pounds and a considerable amount of hair. The most radical change of all and by far the most disturbing was the unflinching haunted expression which pinched the Irishman's face. The extent of the man's misery moved Mathis to ask, "My God, what has happened to you, Father?"

McMannon groaned and rolled his eyes. Mathis thought that he would scream if he were touched. Mathis wondered what type of demon plagued McMannon in his dementia. The former priest looked about the room and then, leaning forward, gripped Mathis' forearm with surprisingly powerful fingers. In a conspiratorial whisper, he revealed, "They're here, Mathis. Their disguises are tight and solid, but they must have slipped, because at night I can see right through their false faces. Then I can see the beasts below. Do you understand me? The presence is here, too. At times I can barely sense it, but other times, it's tremendously strong. It was a revelation that night Mathis. They can't hide from me anymore and they're afraid. That is why they put me here."

Lunacy radiated from the priest and Avery knew that, given the opportunity, he would renew his killing spree with gleeful fanaticism. _'How could someone plunge so far into madness so quickly?'_ he wondered. What had been the catalyst? "What did you see that night?"

He had meant to add the title Father, but the word stuck in his throat. McMannon turned his demented gaze upon the Sheriff, a shrewd grin twisting his cracked lips. "I saw the face and gagged on the stench of evil. The evil was alive and breathing in my Church...in my Church. Such audacity was insufferable. I had to try to evict it. That was my obligation to God."

"Yes, but do you remember seeing someone special, like a person that you had never seen before." Mathis asked, thinking that the entire encounter was another exasperating waste of time. He suddenly wanted to be gone, feeling the walls closing in on him. There was a fine line left between himself and McMannon. He realized this and it frightened him badly. The man's face had gained a new animation. His eyes bulged and his mouth worked. "She was there."

"I'm sorry," Mathis asked, suddenly jolted out of his mental wanderings. "I can't hear you."

McMannon resumed his paranoid inspection of the room. When he seemed to satisfy himself that they were indeed alone, he said, "She was there, sitting at the back of my Church. She was so beautiful, so beautiful." he trailed off, his mind conjuring up a mental portrait of exactly how beautiful she had been.

"Who? Who was she?" Mathis demanded. He was grasping at straws. He understood that, but still...

"She was the one who granted me the power to penetrate their false faces. Her light helped me see through them. She bathed the entire Church in a golden glow. It penetrated their veils and showed me precisely how corrupt and vile those monsters had become."

"Golden glow?" Mathis repeated, not fathoming any of what the other man was suggesting.

"Her eyes began to glow like hot coals in the shadows. Those eyes told me what I had to do. They showed me the way and I had no choice but to follow. Don't you see that?"

Mathis saw no point in disputing the issue, so he decided to humor the man. "Yes, I do."

McMannon offered him a bright smile, ripe with insanity. "You're a righteous man, Avery. I always knew that. I still wasn't able to root out all of the evil, but I do not despair and neither should you. I have faith that she will deliver us from the vice of darkness. She will cast out the corrupt ones, cutting them down like weeds."

A religious fervor blazed in McMannon's eyes, sending shivers along Mathis' spine. If this man was ever allowed to go free, every one in his path would be fodder for that lunacy. Mathis had to get out. He would get nothing more of value from the priest. He moved to the door and rang the buzzer, signaling the attendants that his business was done. He waited with his back to McMannon. "Sheriff, my Church, is it being taken care of?"

There was a heartfelt concern in McMannon's voice. Mathis could feel his heart wrench in his chest. From that moment of empathy came the understanding that the priest's sanity had been irrevocably lost. He vowed, in the name of all of the destruction and grief that had been suffered, that he would find out what that something was and destroy it. He turned back to the other man, who was regarding him with pleading eyes. "Your Church is being well taken care of, I promise."

"Oh, thank God. Someday I'll get out of here and I will lead my flock to salvation," McMannon vowed solemnly. The attendants unlocked the door and Mathis stepped through. He paused at the threshold and said, "Goodbye Father McMannon."

Then he walked out, fearing that he had been somehow tainted by the specter that hovered about the ruined priest.

6

The boy sitting across from him was young when measured against the yardstick of years, but the events that had torn his life apart had endowed him with a maturity far beyond his age. He showed no sign of the surface scars that McMannon displayed. Mathis detected a core of strength in the boy...one which he had found in precious few others. "How have you been, Jimmy?"

"I've been alright Sheriff."

"Do you like it here?" he asked, and then realized how foolish his question was and added, "I mean are they treating you okay?"

Jimmy granted Mathis a fey smile. He'd been placed in a temporary foster home. The family was nice enough, but despite their best efforts to make him feel comfortable, he could not shake the feeling of being an intruder. He had become a nine year old transient, but he was determined to make the best of a bad situation. "Yeah, the Finleys are pretty nice."

"Listen Jimmy, I don't mean to belabor the whole topic by going over it again and again, but I need answers to a few questions. I have to put the final touches on my investigation. I read through your file and it says that you had been seeing a doctor at the hospital. Why doesn't really matter to me because it's none of my business.

"The only thing that I would like to know is the name of the doctor who treated you?"

Jimmy glanced sharply at Mathis and then a stony expression slipped across his face. Mathis stirred, sensing that he had touched upon something. "When I first started going to the hospital, Dr. Elderberg was my doctor. In the end, just before my mom died, my doctor was a lady. I can't pronounce her name very well."

Jimmy said no more. He watched the man, trying to gauge his intentions. Why did he want to know the name of his doctor? His instinctive mistrust of adults urged caution. The witch had set a human instrument of destruction upon him once before and there was no reason that she might not do so again. Still, he had to know what the man was thinking. For his part, Mathis observed the boy with growing admiration. He had mentioned his mother's death without the slightest hint of a hesitation. Mathis had no idea why the boy had been seeing a doctor, but he could discern no visible sign of instability in the boy. "Was it Doctor Simonovic?"

"Yes, I think that was it, yes," the boy replied. Had he flinched slightly at the mention of her name? Mathis thought that he had but that may have been wishful thinking on his part.

"Did you like Doctor Simonovic, Jimmy?" Mathis ventured.

"She was okay, I guess." the boy replied with a noncommittal shrug. Mathis noted the boy's hesitation with a frown. He suspected that the boy was hiding something, but was not sure what or why. It was clear that Jimmy fostered some type of elemental mistrust of adults. He had erected defensive barriers that kept the rest of the world on the outside. "Jimmy, on the day that your father tried to hurt you, do you know where he had been all afternoon?"

The boy studied Mathis. Mathis suddenly felt a subtle tickling sensation in his mind as if invisible fingers were probing the interior chambers of his thoughts. He shuddered as an electrical current passed down his spine. The boy blinked and the strange probing sensation ceased. Jimmy dropped his eyes and said, "He went to see Doctor Simonovic."

"I see," Mathis replied thoughtfully. Jimmy continued to probe Mathis' mind, though more gently this time. The man was poised on the verge of a black canyon, tottering on the edge. It was not difficult to imagine a hand darting out of the void and providing him with the impetus required to send him screaming over the edge. If Jimmy stretched his imagination a slight bit further, he could picture the smiling face of the witch laughing as he plummeted into the abyss. Mathis frowned and leaned forward, ruffling the boy's hair. "Thanks Jimmy. I'll come by next week to see you."

The boy's eyes registered nothing and to Mathis, this was the greatest tragedy of all. The boy had lost the capacity to feel, maybe even to notice his own apathy. Mathis had seen it before...people who had suffered a severe emotional trauma, disconnected their emotions to protect themselves, but killed their capacity to feel in the process. "Jimmy, nothing is easy, but when we build walls around ourselves, we lock out everything - good and bad. The thing is, after a time the walls are so thick that we can't get out and no one is willing to take the time to try and get in."

Mathis watched the boy, hoping for some kind of reaction. Perhaps he did detect a flicker in those gray eyes, but then the usual inscrutable mask slipped back into place. Mathis rose and was about to leave, when Jimmy said, "Be careful."

Avery stopped and looked at the boy, expecting more. "Careful of what, Jimmy?"

"Just be careful Sheriff, that's all." the boy reiterated and his eyes turned stony again. Mathis was about to press the issue, but decided against it. Instead, he closed the door behind him and stood on the front porch, watching the rain fall.

Chapter Nine: Removing the Veil

1

When the telephone rang, David Stillman virtually leapt from his seat and dashed over to the night table.

"Hello, Liz?" he answered making no attempt to disguise his eagerness.

"I'm afraid not," came the reply and Stillman sagged. The voice, which was clipped and precise, sounded remotely familiar. "My name is Jonathon Ashford. We spoke briefly at Doctor Simonovic's party, last Saturday."

"Ah yes, hello Mr. Ashford. What can I do for you?" Something about this telephone call unsettled Stillman. A voice from what David referred to as the twilight zone of his mind, implored him to hang up the telephone.

"Quite frankly Mr. Stillman, I'm not sure that I know how to begin. I have a rather bizarre matter to discuss with you. I think that it would be best if we have our little talk face to face if that would be convenient to you."

"Mr. Ashford, I'm really quite busy. I have a novel deadline to meet and I've allowed myself to slip behind schedule. I..."

"It concerns Elizabeth Simpson and it's rather urgent," Ashford interrupted, jolting David into silence. "I don't mean to alarm you, Mr. Stillman, but me and a small group of colleagues feel that she may be unsuspectingly straying into a particularly nasty situation. We think that you may be best able to communicate our concern to her."

"Tell me where you'd like me to be and I'll meet you there," Stillman replied, almost succeeding in controlling the trembling in his voice.

"Do you know where the Brookman Lounge is located?"

"No, I'm afraid that I don't," Stillman replied. Ashford then gave David the necessary directions and signed off. David hung up the phone and sat heavily upon the bed. Elizabeth was in trouble and despite Ashford's attempt to assure him otherwise, David guessed that trouble to be deep and deadly. The tides of time seemed to be converging upon some disaster, sweeping everyone before it into a vortex of destruction. It had started the first day of his return. His return had been the catalyst for a chain of sinister events that were gaining momentum like a runaway avalanche. David could feel Liz slipping away from him; gradually growing more distant with each conversation. He had spoken to her yesterday and was dismayed by her cool and distant manner. The entire conversation had been a litany about Cynara's courage and her trauma over the attempt upon her life. Her conversation had bordered upon obsession. It was as if she were in a trance state and moving towards the other woman like iron to a magnet. More like a lemming to a cliff, David's mind amended.

These were the types of thoughts which plagued Stillman as he drove to the Brookman Lounge. He pulled his Delta 88 into a slanted parking space, next to a blue Mercedes. He entered the Lounge, glad to be out of the rain which had been falling incessantly since early morning. He looked around the Lounge and saw Ashford, who was gesturing him towards his table. As David walked towards the table, he tried to judge the other man's intentions as if his face held the key to the soul beneath. He saw no sign of guile or insanity...only a conservative, distinguished man, who David suspected held the key to the future for both he and Elizabeth. Ashford stood and extended his hand towards David, who accepted it with a firm shake. "Thank you for coming so promptly, Mr. Stillman. Please sit down."

David sat and a hovering waitress descended upon them. They both ordered a brandy to fortify themselves against not only the cold, but the darkness that was thickening around them. "Mr. Stillman, I have brought you here to tell you a story. I can warn you in advance that you are likely to dismiss it as madness. Before you do, please realize that there is a great deal hinging upon your acceptance of what I am about to tell you."

"Please Mr. Ashford, you told me that Elizabeth is in danger. I've got to know what kind."

"I can understand your concern, but please be patient. If you are to understand any of what I am about to tell you, it's imperative that you hear the whole tale." Ashford replied.

David nodded and settled back, though he could feel his insides quivering. Ashford recounted the entire tale, from the advent of the Saravic Barony to the meeting with Neghev on Thursday and concluding with his conversation with Mathis earlier this morning. He spoke in a dispassionate, logical voice, trying not to embellish the facts as he knew them. David sat listening for the entire two hours that it took the lawyer to tell his tale. When he had concluded, Ashford asked, "So what do you think, Mr. Stillman?"

"You know of course that everything that you've told me is based on conjecture and circumstantial evidence?"

"Yes, I do," Ashford replied simply.

"The greatest part of your tale is based upon the testimony of a killer." David added.

"This is also true, but Mr. Freedman is a very convincing story teller and as I have already indicated, he is not the man who has been terrorizing Semelar."

"You're an educated man, Ashford, a man of law and hard facts, but you want me to believe that you unequivocally accept something so outlandish."

"At first, I felt exactly as you do. It's only rational to have reservations about a story such as this, but the more research I did, the closer I came to outright acceptance. Don't you see that if all of this is true, then Cynara's greatest weapon is our refusal to look beyond our intractable preconceptions?"

"You said that Avery Mathis believed this. Why doesn't he pull this Simonovic in and put the screws to her?"

Ashford smiled. "We have no hard evidence to go on and certainly nothing that could in any way implicate Cynara in any of the crimes. In the other cities, she had done nothing to implicate herself in any of those episodes. Also, whatever else she may be, Cynara Simonovic is one of the most respected psychiatrists in the country. If Mathis were even to approach her with this, he would be crucified. We would have succeeded in doing nothing more than alerting her to our presence."

"So how does all of this involve Elizabeth?"

"Mr. Freedman told us that he had watched Cynara and he speculates that she has some very specific interest in your Elizabeth. Why? He doesn't know and this is why I've come to you. We need your help. We're hoping that you can provide us with an answer to that question."

Stillman said nothing. How could he tell this stranger about the things that had torn his world to shreds? Could he tell the man about the agony of watching the one thing that he truly loved grow more and more distant? If the damage was not already irreparable, this man might hold the key to understanding what was wrong with Liz and how to best combat her problem. "In the past week something has happened to Liz. She has been over come by some sort of distraction. She has been beguiled by this Cynara."

He remembered the near reverence in Liz's voice as she spoke of the Doctor's conquest of this Freedman. Ashford stated that Cynara had a specific interest in Liz. If this were true, then Elizabeth was hers for the taking. "I have a great deal of difficulty buying your _Cynara's a demon_ story, but I do know that something has gotten into Liz and it is changing her; consuming her from the inside out. I'm powerless to stop it. I'm afraid for her, Mr. Ashford. Very afraid."

David stopped, unable to proceed. He could not find adequate words to properly vocalize his fear - it was too vague, too confusing. Ashford could feel the other man's turmoil. His misery was written on his face in stark blacks and grays. "David, we have to know what Cynara's game is. It's our only way of going after her. I'd like you to try to speak to Liz and warn her about the dangers that she may be facing. Try to gauge her reaction, David. Maybe she'll give something away; something that could help us. Mathis' hands are tied on all official levels, but we've decided to take matters into our own hands if, and I stress only if, we can find some evidence to support Freedman's accusations."

"What do you mean... _take matters into our own hands?_ " Stillman demanded.

"David, don't be coy. If we can find something that would convince ourselves that Cynara Simonovic is in any way responsible, we will kill her."

David looked towards the bay window as a peel of thunder shook the night, bathing the room in an electric glow. Rain splattered against the window pane and lightning cracked the October night. Stillman reflected that he could not have written a more appropriate atmosphere for such a macabre tale. "Normally I'd humor you, Mr. Ashford, and then walk away smiling, but I'm in no position for such a luxury. Tell me what you'd like me to do."

"Just this - go to Elizabeth and tell her what I've told you. Take careful note of her reaction. Try to impress upon her just how dangerous her situation is. If Cynara does want Elizabeth, as Mr. Freedman theorizes, then Elizabeth could be in great peril."

"If all of this proves true, then how do you intend to stop Cynara? If Freedman shot her three times and could not kill her, what makes you think that you'll have any more success?"

"I think that Mr. Freedman took an earthly approach to a metaphysical problem. He tried to destroy the creature with things of this world. This, in my opinion, was his error. If this Simonovic can be defeated, it will be on a spiritual plane. I believe that a creature of her ilk intends to dispirit and defile everything that it comes into contact with. If we can demonstrate that our faith and our souls are inviolable, then perhaps we can exorcise it."

"We are seeing one of the true faces of evil, pure and free of disguise." The light in Jonathon Ashford's eyes shifted in an odd pulsing manner as he related his story to David Stillman. The two men sat at a small table at the back of the Brookman Lounge, which was deserted save for themselves and two other couples. The other couples seemed not to notice the two men, despite an intensity which hung about the pair like a glowing corona. Ashford's face was pale and tired, but there was also an animation in his features; an animation that was totally alien to the normally reserved lawyer. A strange balance of fear and joy worked to shape his expression, casting a spell which held Stillman like a vice.

"Each of us, at one time or another, is faced with choices, David. Some we make with great ease, others with great pain and difficulty. At times, our choices are startling and alien even to ourselves. All of us are confronted with temptation from one source or another, but the basis for temptation is always an internal creation. We are subject to greed, lust, envy and hatred. We breed our own demons like infectious insects. Once born, these insects multiply and feed, breaking down the purity of spirit and eventually, killing it." Ashford paused to sip his whiskey. As he did, the hand that lifted the glass shook slightly. Outside, the rain broadsided the building with a fury that made all the patrons glance uneasily toward the window that looked out onto Justin Drive. The darkness of the night and the intensity of the storm lent a measure of credence to Ashford's dialogue. "All of these things are fairly petty, though sometimes horrible," he continued," but they are in no way unique. They are simply part of our nature. We all contain a measure of 'evil' and 'good' and we are judged by which force exerts the most influence upon our actions. This mix does not allow for purity of spirit, does it, David?"

"No, it doesn't," Stillman replied. He could sense the undercurrent of anxiety in the other man's thoughts. Sipping at his beer, he waited for the other man to continue.

"I never really believed that actual evil existed, other than in the forms that I've just mentioned. But now, David, I do believe. This thing is a creature of pure evil. It exists for the purpose of spreading misery and suffering. It's strange, but despite the terrifying aspects of all of this, I find it all rather fascinating...even invigorating." Ashford stared off into the middle distance, lost in thought. Stillman noted, with a touch of dismay, the strange new light that danced in the older man's eyes. He could feel the strength of Ashford's' new passion. The allure of danger about the situation made Stillman shiver slightly. Ashford seemed to be enchanted, lost in a world of new possibilities, where all of the old rules would no longer apply. "So you really believe what you've been told by this hunter?"

"Yes, I believe it to be not only possible, but quite probable," Ashford replied. With dawning horror, Stillman saw that, not only did the other man accept the story, he wanted it to be true...somehow needed it to be so. He told Ashford this. Ashford smiled a strange new smile and said," Yes, you may be right. In a way, I hope that what I've been told proves to the truth. All of my life, I have lived by structure and form. What is the law but a system of borders and structures? Everything is precise and ordered and in the end, so utterly mundane. We all become so secure in our beliefs and prejudices that the very thought of something new is frightening. You and I have a rare opportunity to see something new - something totally foreign to our commonly accepted reality. I won't tell you that I am not afraid, but I am also alive and more aware than I have been in years. Confronted by a thing so alien to our nature, we have but two choices: to accept what we see or go mad. I accept this David, and yes, I even want it to be so. If something so foul can exist, then surely a thing of equal splendor and beauty must also exist."

At that precise moment the power failed, leaving the room blanketed in shadows. The very air around them seemed to be alive with unseen forces, cavorting and dancing just out of sight. A second later, the power came back, flooding the room with a white light that was both civilized and comforting. After a moment, Ashford continued, but now his strange internal glow had guttered somewhat. David listened to the other man talk, riveted by his words and struck by the changes that he, himself, had undergone in the past few days.

"This all strikes me as something that was destined to happen. The possibility that destiny was anything more than a writer's tool had never occurred to me...until now. Then again, very little of what I previously believed matters now, does it? Evil is a weak force, David. Though it may be pure in intent, it is weak in structure; it feeds off of itself as well as its victims. That is why no evil force has been able to sustain itself for long periods of time throughout history. If they are not outwardly destroyed, then they are toppled from within; usually by the weight of their own corruption. This creature is old and maybe, just maybe, its time has come and gone. Maybe it is our destiny to be the ones to bring it down." With these words he reached across the table and clasped both of Stillman's hands. David noticed how soft they were, felt how soft his own were, and wondered if hands such as these could shape destiny. Grimly, Stillman doubted if they could.

"What will you do?" he asked, already knowing how Ashford would respond.

"Go to it, confront it and hopefully defeat it." With this he stood and walked slowly to the front of the lounge, toward the exit. None of the others in the room noticed him go, though to David, he seemed to be cloaked in a shroud of electricity. At the door, he turned, smiled slightly, and raised his hand in a wave of parting. Jonathon Ashford opened the door and stepped out into the stormy night. David Stillman watched him go, knowing in his heart that he would never see him again; knowing that he had gone to confront his destiny.

Chapter Ten: Above the Law

When Jonathon Ashford emerged from the Brookman lounge, stepping into the stormy October night, he was feeling something that was very near religious ecstasy. He imagined himself as a crusader, having happened upon an adventure that would take him to places and show him things that he would never have believed could exist. When Ashford had entered law school, he had envisioned himself as a crusader even then; a man who would confront evil and injustice and overcome it. He had been an idealist then and though time had relaxed his ideals somewhat, he was still possessed by the same desire to see justice served. In Cynara Simonovic he saw the ultimate injustice. She was a woman who had the capacity to dispense an endless amount of joy and goodness, but instead chose to destroy everything that she came into contact with. Ashford exulted in the notion that he could undo her. He would confront her armed only with the belief that good would always triumph over evil.

Ashford squinted as he maneuvered his Mercedes through the downpour. At once, he heard a titter from the back seat and glanced into his rear view mirror. A streetlight illuminated the back seat with a flash and Ashford caught a brief glimpse of Cynara Simonovic. She sat watching him with a hungry, predatory smile, like a wolf that has happened upon an untended flock of sheep. Ashford blinked and turned his head, but saw nothing. The back seat was empty save for Ashford's black leather brief case. He shook his head and laughed, but even to his ears the laughter sounded forced and hollow. His blooming unease reflected the rashness of his actions. This was not an adventure or a part in some romantic drama. He was embroiled in a life or death confrontation. This woman, if that was what she was, was a sadistic butcher, unencumbered by compassion or mercy. More than this, if Freedman's story was entirely true, she was not subject to the same natural laws as the rest of the human world. Ashford was considering the implications of this, when a voice issued from the back seat, "I think that you're beginning to grasp the whole picture, Mr. Ashford."

Ashford's head whipped back to the rear seat which was still deserted. As he did so, he pulled the wheel hard to the right, sending the car careening off of the corrugated steel guard rail. There was a high metallic scream and sparks flew, as the unyielding rail gouged the Mercedes body. Ashford cried out as he struggled to regain control of the rocketing car.

"Jonathon, keep your eyes on the road. Driving like this will be the death of us," Cynara cried and then broke into gales of hysterical laughter.

Sweat began to drip down Ashford's face. Its saltiness stung him, forcing him to blink constantly. He slowed the car to a crawl and glanced towards the rear view mirror. She was sitting in the back seat. Her legs were casually crossed and an amiable smile was etched onto her face as if being here was the most natural thing in the world. "Don't bother looking back over your shoulder because there is no one there."

He tried to resist the temptation, but still found his head straying towards the back seat. A hand broke the surface of the mirror as if it were water. It took Ashford by the throat, squeezing him like a python. The lawyer jerked his head back towards the mirror. He stared directly into the rear view mirror and saw the blazing eyes of the witch regarding him furiously. "Have you no faith, Ashford."

The power of her grip constricted his windpipe and he flailed at the hand, desperately trying to free himself. The fingers gave one final, prolonged squeeze and then withdrew back through the mirror. Cynara settled back into her seat and meticulously adjusted her cape. Ashford watched, dividing his attention between the rain slick road and the nightmare vision in his mirror.

"I know who you are," he challenged as though this utterance of knowledge was an incantation against her evil.

Cynara fixed him with her most bewitching smile. "Do you now? I honestly believe that you and your small band of crusaders think you do. At last I'm to have some opposition, as feeble as it may be. Well, the gauntlet has been thrown down and I must accept the challenge."

Ashford watched her. Her glacial calm and sarcasm were disquieting. Suddenly her jaw dropped and she cried urgently, "Look, Ashford!"

Ashford's eyes swung back to the road. A tall, black clad figure was framed in the twin glow of his headlights. Ashford jammed hard on the brakes, causing them to lock. The car skidded towards the figure, who took no evasive actions. He released the brakes and pulled the wheel hard to the right. The heavy rain had left the road treacherously slick and the vehicle hydroplaned. Ashford looked into the mirror to find Cynara gone, as was the figure on the road. The wheels caught in a deep rut near the edge of the road and the car went tumbling side over side...once, twice and then a third time, until it finally came to a halt in the ditch, wheels up.

The wheels spun in the damp night air, slowly winding down until all motion ceased completely. Inside, Ashford tried to extricate himself from his seatbelt. His efforts became frantic when his nostrils caught the pungent odor of gasoline. After finally releasing the lock button, Ashford found that he could not force the door open. He would have been hopelessly trapped, had the passenger side window not been badly cracked. Ashford positioned himself and using both feet, kicked through the cracked window, sending tiny shards of glass in all directions. Ashford scrambled out onto the wet gravel shoulder, cutting his palms and knees on the shattered glass. He tried to rise, but his legs protested, sending him staggering back against the overturned car. The night swam in and out of focus. Ashford guessed correctly that he had sustained a concussion. From somewhere above his hairline, blood ran freely down his forehead.

The night was silent, except for the falling rain and a rhythmic click of metal on asphalt. Ashford searched for the source of the sound and then saw a svelte shape coming towards him. Though he couldn't make out specific features, Ashford knew who was approaching.

"Cynara," he whispered through the pain in his head.

"Mr. Ashford, it seems as if you've found yourself in quite the spot. It's fortunate for you that I happened along at such an opportune moment." Her sardonic mirth made Ashford tremble. He had stumbled headlong into a tiger's lair and he was about to face the consequences.

"Are you going to kill me, Cynara? If you are then I can assure you that your whole charade will be exposed. My friends are fully aware of where I was going."

"Fuck your friends!" Cynara spat disdainfully. "There is something that I want here and no one is going to prevent me from getting it. As for your friends, they'll be joining you in hell soon enough."

She had come to within three paces of Ashford. She waved her hand and suddenly they were bathed in a golden light. Even in this situation, Ashford was forced to concede that she was an exquisite beauty. She looked down at him, along the angle of her cheek bones, like a true aristocrat. Drops of rain glistened like jewels in her black mane. Ashford shook his head in bewilderment. "Why Cynara? Why all of this? You've been blessed with talent and an indescribable beauty. You have abilities beyond all reckoning, but you use them to slaughter and destroy everything that is good in humanity. Why?"

Cynara burst into an amused laughter. "I have an idealist. Your kind has always amused me to no end. You call me a butcher, but the idealists of the world led the masses to slaughter since the dawn of civilization. People like you have been responsible for more destruction than I could ever hope to achieve in a thousand life times. Fuck your idealism Ashford. I live by one ideal, power. Would you care to see a small display of my power, Ashford?"

In the end, a man is ruled by his essential self. Jonathon Ashford was ruled by insatiable curiosity, so he wasn't even slightly surprised when he whispered, "Yes."

She grinned. The grin shamed Ashford because it acknowledged his predictability. By being predictable, he relinquished himself to her. The skin on her face began to hollow and swell. A small split appeared on her perfect forehead. It widened and lengthened, peeling back from the bone below. _'She's shedding her skin like a snake.'_ he thought wondrously. Her eyeballs bulged and then fell from their sockets, landing in a puddle with two small plops. Two new eyes had pushed into the sockets to replace them. The new eyes were yellow and cut by black vertical slashes. The lower mandible began to elongate, until it protruded a full four inches beyond the face. Sharp incisors began to poke through the gums, curving into needle points.

Her entire body was going through a rapid metamorphosis. The perfect curves were giving way to bulging masses of tangled muscle. The chest and shoulders broadened and thickened. The creature trembled as the change played itself out. It raised its head and considered the fallen figure of Ashford, who looked up at the beast in the same way that a sheep might look at an approaching wolf. He could hear the whistling sound of its breathing and then it spoke. "Look and be a witness to my soul, my dark alter ego. Does this provide you with an inkling of what you're dealing with? This is what I am, Ashford. I admire you in a way. You have an inquiring mind, a genuine need to know, even if that knowledge puts you in harm's way. In the spirit of this, I am going to give you a sporting chance. You may run now. I promise not to follow at once. GO!"

Cynara's harsh cry got Ashford moving. He leapt to his feet and then started off down the road, cutting into the trees a hundred and fifty feet from the car. He ran through the thick lacing of trees, ignoring the branches that whipped at his face. The moonless night made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of him. He heard a crashing of branches, as something moved through the trees off to his right. The beast was rapidly converging upon him. An intense fear gripped him, impeding his ability to think clearly. He crested a small hill, only to find the ground beneath his feet gone. He fell through the air, pin wheeling his arms as he went. He did a complete somersault and landed with his left leg pinned beneath him. The crack was huge and the ensuing pain flashed through him like a bolt of white hot agony. He looked down at his shattered leg and saw that a jagged edge of bone had cut through his muscle and skin. Blood poured along the bone like water from a faucet.

He attempted to roll over, trying to alleviate the strain on his ruined leg. He knew that if didn't tie off the leg soon, he would bleed to death. The pain was overwhelming and Ashford screamed until it felt as if his throat would surely burst. The cries brought the beast. It looked down upon Ashford, then laid back its head and emitted a roar of triumph. The beast glanced about, spotted a path to the bottom of the cut, and descended. "You're going to die Ashford. Though, I suppose that you're already aware of that. Give yourself to me and I will heal you. If you do, I will show you the hidden joys of the dark side. I will make them yours. Enlightenment, Ashford. I can give you limitless enlightenment."

Her offer was not without its temptations. The beast was correct in saying that he was about to die. The blood spilling from his leg bore witness to that fact. The creature before him was an abomination. Any salvation that it could offer would be worthless. Weakly, he managed, "Let me die in peace."

"As you wish," the beast replied. There seemed to be a measure of satisfaction in its words. "You've made a gallant choice."

With this it turned and moved back into the trees, leaving Jonathon Ashford to his slow, agonizing death.

Chapter Eleven: Elizabeth and David Breaking Ties

Saturday morning dawned cold and rainy, with a prevailing wind from the north. The rain seemed furious, pounding Semelar with unremitting force. David Stillman had overslept his customary eight o'clock rise. He hadn't been able to sleep after his macabre meeting with Ashford. He struggled to reconcile the conflicting emotions that the man's story had evoked. Surely it was all madness, yet David had seen that Ashford sincerely believed the assassin's tale. It was also impossible to deny that Liz had undergone a dramatic change in the last week. She appeared to have fallen under some spell; developing a definite fixation on Cynara. Still, that was neither supernatural nor all that extraordinary.

The digital clock on the bedside table indicated that it was now five minutes to twelve. David gaped at the clock incredulously. He couldn't recall the last time that he had slept until noon. Feeling groggy, he made his way to the shower, switching on the radio as he did. Stillman winced as the grating screams of a popular female singer issued from the speakers. He brushed his teeth, glad to be rid of the terrible taste in his mouth. He was just placing the toothbrush back into its holder, when the lead story of Semelar's News at Noon replaced the previous racket. David's heart froze as the newscaster disclosed the details of the morning's gruesome discovery on Winston Road.

Jonathon Ashford was dead. His car was found upside down in a roadside ditch, though there was no sign of Ashford himself. Police had combed the surrounding woods and found Ashford's body lying at the bottom of a gully. Police Chief Avery Mathis speculated that Ashford had crashed and then, being disoriented from the impact, wandered into the woods and fell into the gully, incurring the injuries that led to his death. The radio report went on to eulogize Mr. Ashford and his contribution to the community.

Stillman stood rigid, certain that the lawyer's death was anything but accidental. Less than twenty four hours ago, he'd been conversing with Ashford and now he was dead. What did it mean? Stillman did not know, but his first reaction was shock, followed by the determination to convince Liz that any further association with Cynara could be potentially dangerous. He showered and dressed quickly, having decided that it would be best to confront her in person. Despite all of the tension and confusion, David found that he missed her the way that a recovering addict craves a fix. The analogy was ugly but appropriate. As he drove across town, he came to the understanding that his life had reached a crucial juncture. He was on the verge of losing Liz, if he hadn't already, but he now feared that Liz was in danger of losing more than just her love interest.

He pulled into her driveway behind the Tercel and after killing the engine, sat trying to gather himself. He took a deep breath, got out of his car and walked to the front door. He knocked and some seconds later, Elizabeth opened the door. "Oh, David. Hello, I wasn't expecting you."

Stillman felt a twinge of bitter pain at her distant tone. Her eyes were remote and there was no joy in those blue depths. She made no move to invite him in and the general message was clear...things have changed and you are no longer welcome here. "Liz, I really have to speak to you. May I please come in?"

She hesitated for a moment and then opened the door, stepping aside to let him in. She ushered him into her office and David took this to be a symbolic gesture. This was business and in her mind, he was already out of the intimate portion of her life. He sat in a chair, while she leaned against her desk. Her aloofness only added to her desirability. David could feel that familiar hunger working in him. "Elizabeth, I've something to tell you. It won't be easy to accept, but it's imperative that you try. Will you do that for me?"

"Of course I will, David. Why would you think that I wouldn't?" she responded defensively.

David chose to ignore her question. "Last night a man came to me. I believe that you know him. His name is Jonathon Ashford."

"Yes, I know Jonathon. What did he want David? I had no idea that you knew him." Her voice seemed edged with an uncharacteristic suspicion.

"Prior to last night, I didn't. He called and asked me to meet him. He wanted to discuss you, Elizabeth. He was concerned about you, about your safety."

"Why in God's name would he be worried about me?" she exclaimed. Stillman could not understand why she was so perturbed.

"Quite frankly he was concerned about your relationship with Cynara Simonovic."

Elizabeth's face colored crimson and she grew angry. "What damn business is my friendship with Cynara to anyone else? How dare he be so presumptuous as to discuss me with you?" She slammed her fist down upon her desk, causing David to jump. "I'm going to call him right now and demand an explanation."

She moved behind her desk and took the phone book in hand, searching for his office number. "It's going to be difficult to get any kind of explanation from Ashford. He's dead."

Elizabeth's anger dissipated, replaced by shock and disbelief. "Jonathon is dead? How?"

"Supposedly he was killed when his car overturned on Winston Road. I suspect there are several people who might have some doubt about that. I'm one of those people."

"Doubt that it was an accident? Please don't play games with me, David. If you have something to say, then just come out and say it."

Her curt tone made it clear that she was in no mood to tolerate any guessing games. More discouraging still, he feared that she was in no mood to listen either. "Ashford came to tell me that certain developments have led him to believe that Cynara Simonovic may be responsible for many of the murders and disappearances. This opinion is shared by Avery Mathis, and I'm beginning to think that their theory may not be far from the truth."

"That's ludicrous. That is the most ridiculous thing that I have ever heard. It amazes me that supposedly intelligent men could think up such a thing. David, you met Cynara. Does she look like a psychotic killer to you?"

"No, she doesn't, but that's meaningless and if you would just consider a few things for a moment, you'll begin to understand why they believe what they do."

"I don't know if I want to hear this David, I really don't. Cynara is probably the most intelligent, compassionate woman that I have ever met and a very vulnerable one at that. It is inconceivable to me that she could do anything to hurt anyone. The notion that she could actually kill someone is outright crazy," Elizabeth flared back. David was taken aback by the ferocity of her denial. He could see that his efforts to warn her about Cynara would be futile, but he still felt obligated to try. He began to repeat Ashford's story, sparing no detail. Elizabeth did not interrupt, only listened with an expression of growing disdain. When Stillman had concluded his story, she began to laugh. David was not sure what he expected, but it wasn't hysterical laughter.

"Who are you? The David Stillman that I knew would never have taken the word of a murderer and then mixed gall and stupidity in a perfect blend to accuse a woman of being a demon from hell. Jesus, do you know how absurd that is and how moronic you sound?" Elizabeth spat, making no attempt to temper her sarcasm.

"Elizabeth, there was a time when you would never have spoken to me in that tone of voice." David countered quietly.

"Times have changed, David. People change as well and not always for the better. If you could only hear yourself? You say that Avery Mathis believes this tripe. Then why doesn't he simply arrest Cynara?"

"There are procedures to be followed and people's prejudices to contend with."

"Don't be condescending, David. You, of all people, have no right to treat me that way."

"What exactly does that mean?" Stillman shot back. He could feel his anger mounting. He realized that it was essential that he remain calm, but he couldn't seem to help himself.

"You know exactly what I mean. You've done more than your share of damage to me, but I was willing to forgive you. I've been such a fool, but never again. Cynara was right when she told me that people like she and I could never rely on anyone."

"So now Cynara is your spiritual Guru?" Stillman quipped.

"She cares for me, David. She cares for me for strictly for the person I am. Every man that I have ever known has only wanted me for ego value or some kind of social leverage. I thought that you were different, but I see you now for what you are. You mean nothing to me now." Elizabeth's flawless blue eyes blazed. David couldn't remember ever seeing her so angry. Her last barb sliced through the fragile fabric of his heart. He felt as if he had been cast adrift, left to float in some weightless world of misery. "How could you say that to me after the love that we shared?"

Her expression softened as she recalled those moments. David felt a flicker of hope, but then that stony expression clamped back down on her face, sealing off the old Elizabeth. "I think that I'm beginning to see what this is all about. You're jealous, aren't you?"

"What?" David asked, truly perplexed.

"Of Cynara, You're jealous of Cynara. She's rich, intelligent and beautiful. You and just about every other man around look rather shabby in comparison. I look at Cynara and I see a strong independent woman, whose achievements deserve admiration. You just see another female bitch to envy. It's understandable I suppose. She is so much more of a woman than you are a man. If you've succeeded, it's only in spite of yourself. This hatred of Cynara is only a manifestation of your own inadequacy. You're such a pathetic excuse for a man," she spat contemptuously.

If someone would have suggested that he would ever do what he did next, David would have told them that they were mad. Still, in the blink of an eye, Stillman sprang to his feet and struck Elizabeth across the face. A sharp whapping sound filled the air, as her head rocked back on her shoulders. She stood frozen, with her head turned to one side and her blonde hair hanging in her face. For his part, Stillman stood gape jawed, unable to believe what he had just done. A silence descended upon the room, spinning itself out, as the two stood there like statues. "Oh God Liz, I'm so sorry."

Stillman's voice was shaky and miserable. Liz turned to him and he winced, seeing his hand print standing out against her perfect skin. He nearly felt sick to his stomach. He advanced, meaning to put his arms around her, but she placed both hands upon his chest and pushed him away. He staggered backwards, almost losing his balance. "Don't you ever touch me again or I swear to God I'll tear your eyes out."

Though tears had begun to form in the corners of her eyes, he could see bright hatred blazing there as well. He had made a shambles of everything. It was a mistake, he knew, that could ultimately cost Elizabeth her life. "Liz, please, no matter what's happened between us, think about what I've said. This Cynara is..."

"David, no. I'll hear no more talk about Cynara. You and I have nothing left to say to each other." She absently stroked her cheek, which had begun to swell slightly. "I think that you've said it all."

David could feel a lump forming in his throat. He looked at her bleakly, hating what had happened between them and hating how he had failed her. Still, the lines of communication were severed and there was nothing left to say. Stillman turned and walked slowly to the door, where less than a month ago he had stepped back into her life. He paused, looking out into the rainy afternoon, not wanting to look back at her. "A lot of what you've said to me may be true and I suppose that I deserve whatever you dish out, but it doesn't change the fact that I love you more than anything else in my life. I know that I ran away and I've had to live with that ever since. You were something that I loved beyond anything that I had ever known and I guess that I just panicked. As much as I'd like to, I can't change that. Maybe you're right. Maybe I am a sad excuse for a man, but I doubt that you'll ever find anyone that loves you more. Be that as it may, I swear that I am right about a few things. I'm afraid for you. Something about Cynara Simonovic scares me. If you've ever loved me, you'll think about what I've told you. Please. I'll go now because I know that it's what you want, but if you ever need me, you know where I am. Goodbye, Liz."

With this, he opened the door and went out without looking back. He firmly believed that he would never see Elizabeth Simpson...his Elizabeth Simpson...again. He wouldn't...at least not for twenty five years.

Chapter Twelve: Neghev and Mathis

1

At about the same time that David and Elizabeth were embroiled in their verbal war, Zved Neghev lay in his hospital bed, staring disconsolately out the window. Rain battered the glass, running along its surface in tiny rivers. The water caught the room's fluorescent light and made it dance. The world beyond that window looked depressingly bleak, which pretty much reflected Neghev's mood. He wondered what the future held for him. He could see no cause for optimism, regardless of the way that things might resolve themselves.

His thoughts were disturbed by the muffled sound of conversation just beyond his door. A moment later, the door swung open and Avery Mathis came in, looking haggard and ill. He closed the door behind him and stood there watching Neghev. In a flat, dispassionate voice, he said, "Jonathon Ashford is dead."

Neghev said nothing, he merely frowned. In the light of how everything else had gone, this was not a particularly startling development. While death was not a new or even disturbing thing to Neghev, Mathis was horrified by the mounting toll and baffled by this man's seemingly indifferent attitude. "Did you hear what I said? Ashford is dead, damn it."

"How?" Neghev asked, seeing that the other man was demanding some sort of response. Without knowing particulars, Neghev was fairly certain he knew _who_ was responsible for the lawyer's demise.

"It looks like a car accident. His car overturned on the highway and evidently he wandered off into the woods and fell into a gully. He bled to death." Mathis concluded glumly.

"And do you think this is really what happened?" Neghev asked.

"No, I don't, I don't believe that a man like Ashford would get careless and crash on a stormy night. Even if he did, he was much too intelligent to just wander off into the woods."

"I'd only met him once, Sheriff, but I would have to agree," Neghev offered. Mathis cursed and pounded his fist into his hand, saying "I don't know what happened. Like everything else in this case, I don't have a fucking clue. It's like trying to tie a knot around a drop of mercury; after a while, you've end up tripping over your own loose ends."

Neghev felt an immense sympathy for the man. He was faced with a power far beyond the scope of his understanding and could not begin to suspect that he was in way over his head. To Neghev, he was a glorious foot soldier fighting a grim battle, but lacking the tools and the talent necessary to win. He could understand the man's torment, but he was in no position to help him.

"Freedman, I really don't know who you are, but I doubt that you're crazy and I know that you are innocent. I want to know why you intended to kill Cynara Simonovic. Before he died, Ashford implied that there might be a connection between Simonovic and the killings here. He had me talk to the Simms boy and Father McMannon. I came away from both interviews with a lot of odd, disconnected rubbish; a bunch of mystical bullshit. So you see...I don't know much of anything except that Jonathon is dead along with a lot of other good people. Worse still, I think that a lot more are going to die. I've just spent the last hour and a half telling the Mayor, a man who I thoroughly detest, that you are not the killer. Please, I'm begging you, if you can tell me what is happening, then help me. I'm at the end of my rope. I've nowhere left to turn."

The two men eyed each other intensely; one waiting for the clue that would lead him to salvation and save the town, the other, a man caught in the jaws of indecision. Neghev could imagine how much it had taken the other man to subjugate his pride. His own life was effectively over, so he had little to lose by trying to help Mathis. "My name is Zved Neghev." he began, using his natural accent. "I am an Israeli intelligence agent. I was sent here by a private interest group. My assignment was to liquidate Cynara Simonovic. For obvious reasons, I can't reveal who they are, but they believe that Simonovic is responsible for a series of killings in several different American cities."

Mathis was on the verge of scoffing at Neghev, but decided against it. The man had recently arrived in the United States and was obviously a foreigner and supposedly an intelligence agent? That couldn't be any more bizarre than any of the other recent developments. "Is this why Ashford wanted me to cross check this Simonovic's place of residence with a series of murders that have taken place over the past ten years?"

"Yes. I provided him with that information. I was hoping that you would make the connection. After lying here for the past two days, I realized that even if you had, it just wouldn't matter. You'll never be able to prove complicity in even a single murder. Simonovic has taken great pains to insure that she is above reproach; an exemplary citizen."

"Listen Neghev, there is no way that a woman of her size could have done what was done to some of those bodies. It just wouldn't be possible."

Neghev did not answer at once, knowing that the most difficult part was about to come. The barrier, the concrete limit of acceptance that people constructed, was Cynara's greatest ally. Unless he could get through this man's barrier, the town could well be lost. "Simonovic is no ordinary woman. She is what would best be called a demon; at least, this is what the people who hired me believe. At first, I reacted just as you are, but I came to learn the painful truth. Look at me Mathis. Put aside your preconceptions and really look at me. She nearly beat me to death without even scratching her knuckles. You know that the Beretta was fired four times - three of those shots hit her in the chest, dead center. If you look at those things and see them without tunnel vision, then the possibility that she is something much more than human isn't so absurd."

"What am I supposed to do? There isn't a shred of evidence that would implicate her in any of this. If I even took her in for questioning, she would have reasonable grounds for a harassment charge. My hands are tied, Neghev." Mathis seethed with frustration. Neghev knew that everything the lawman had said was valid.

"It really doesn't matter whether you take her in for questioning or not. Even if you could accumulate enough evidence to obtain a conviction, it really doesn't make a bit of difference. If you accept the premise that she is some manner of demon, then you'd realize that no type of confinement could hold her. She would simply vanish into thin air. Mathis, the only way to rid the world of Cynara Simonovic is to liquidate her."

Mathis ran the back of his hand across his mouth. This man was proposing murder. Avery had always prided himself on his ethical standards, but it was not really pride that caused him to follow the letter of the law. He firmly believed that the law was a sacred entity, the last bastion between civility and chaos. If he accepted what Neghev had told him, then the law became obsolete. No, not so much obsolete as incomplete or insufficient. This was a situation that existed beyond the dictates of its rules and regulations. It could and never would make allowances for a creature such as Cynara Simonovic. He looked towards the hospital window where the rain refused to relent. There was not enough rain in the heavens to wash away the stink of death and fear that hung over Semelar. Mathis thought 'All of my life, I've tried to keep the town pure and clean and now its future depends upon the word of an attempted murderer'. So what did he do? Mathis doubted that he had the stuff to kill in cold blood. He wanted no part in judgment. Neghev watched Mathis, intimating his train of thought. "I'm not suggesting that you kill Simonovic."

"Then what are you suggesting?" Mathis inquired, mystified now.

"I'm suggesting that you allow me to complete my assignment," Neghev replied evenly. His eyes were cold and hard, displaying no hint of emotion.

"Jesus Christ!" Mathis exclaimed. "You want me to let you out so that you can go and finish the job. Holy shit! Even if you managed to kill her, we would still have no proof of her guilt. I would be crucified in front of the town hall. You're asking me to trust you, a man that I know only as a hired assassin."

"Eleven people have died here, four of them children. Can you afford not to at least consider the possibility? I watched a New York State Police video tape, Mathis. I saw six Satanists burn a small child to death. I'm sure that Cynara directed the ritual. Don't think that she'll stop. She derives unspeakable pleasure from killing, from butchery. You and I may be the first people in a genuine position to stop her. We can't turn away, no matter what the consequences. Every death from this point on would be a black stain on our souls."

Mathis looked down into his palms. His eyes traced his life line with its odd intersecting slashes. If he ignored this man's plea and one more child died, the guilt would drive him to despair and madness. He felt confused, impotent and useless. "How would we do it? How would we get you out of here?"

Neghev did not smile, but inside his heart soared. Perhaps this situation was still salvageable. Maybe, just maybe. He gave no thought to the prospect of facing Simonovic again. He was dead and the dead knew no fear. "I can't be kept in the hospital forever. Transfer me, just you alone, and on the way we'll engineer an escape. All that I'll require of you is a little time. Just misdirect your search dogs and I'll do the rest."

"When would you want to do this?" Mathis asked, mentally calculating their chances of pulling it off.

"Soon. Today if possible. Things are coming to a climax. Can you arrange for my transfer? I mean today?" Neghev pressed anxiously. He could almost hear Cynara's engine of destruction gaining momentum.

"Yes, it's just a matter of securing permission from the hospital administration, but that's just a formality. That is, if you're in any condition to move," Mathis added doubtfully. "The administrator will allow me to take you to jail and he'll be glad to be rid of you."

Watching Neghev, the obvious occurred to Avery. "You're a physical wreck. Will you be in any condition to confront Simonovic again?"

"I'll have to try."

"But if she did this to you last time, why are you so sure that this time will be different?" Mathis asked. Neghev didn't seem capable of walking around the block.

"I'm not sure. I only know that I have to try. I have to kill Cynara or she is going to have to kill me. There can be no other end to our war; no vague resolutions, only death." Neghev had intended no dramatics. He had been forged for precisely such an ending.

"Why are you doing this, Neghev? Look at yourself. You were nearly killed. It would be easier to put the ball in my court and be done with it. There is no way in the world that you could be convicted of the other murders and if Simonovic were found guilty, you would most likely walk away free. So why risk your life like this?"

Neghev pulled back the covers and gingerly climbed out of bed. He crossed over to the window and stood watching the rain fall for a moment. "I have an obligation to the people who sent me and to all of the people who have died at this bitch's hands. More than this, I have an obligation to two people who died because of my stupidity. I've carried the guilt of that tragic folly like a millstone. I just can't carry it anymore, but if I can kill this monster, then maybe I'll find redemption and cast that stone aside. You're correct in your assumption. I don't know how I'm going to kill Simonovic. Regardless, I'm going to kill her or die trying. All that I'm asking for is the opportunity. I won't be a burden if I fail. I'll be dead."

Mathis listened to the Israeli speak. His face was partially obscured by shadows, still Mathis could see the pain that danced and capered there. In that pain he saw the real man and in the real man, the mournful truth. "Rest Neghev and I'll come back in an hour. Be ready to move."

Neghev turned to Mathis and granted him a broad, appreciative smile. Mathis returned the smile and then went out to make the necessary arrangements. Mathis had never met a man of this mettle. Mathis prayed that he was not guilty of a terrible misjudgment. The Israeli was an enigma, but maybe he would prove to be the town's salvation.

2

Two hours later, a lone police cruiser sped through the outskirts, into the woodlands surrounding Semelar. Once that he judged that they were far enough from the hospital, Mathis pulled the cruiser over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. The rain continued to fall, pounding at the car top. As the two men sat in silence watching the storm gather, Mathis could see how pale and exhausted Neghev looked. The mere effort of getting dressed had taken an extreme toll on the man. Mathis had not missed the pain that marked the man's every movement.

Securing authority to transfer Neghev was easy, just as Mathis had anticipated that it would. The deputy on guard outside of Neghev's door had found it odd that Mathis insisted that he remain at his post, even though Neghev was being moved. This was a strict violation of Avery's own implemented policy. Mathis told Neghev, after they had passed into the parking lot, "If one of my men had tried a stunt like this, I'd have had him shot."

Neghev smiled but said nothing, as though he were conserving every last drop of precious energy. Mathis wondered how it would feel to confront almost certain death. "What do you intend to do, Neghev?"

"I'll try to watch her again and see if I can detect some weakness. If I find one, I'll try to kill her again." Neghev gazed raptly at the hypnotic fall of rain, almost mesmerized by its rhythm. Eventually, he continued. "There's a good chance that I'll die, Mathis. If I do, pull her in. Make it a highly public arrest. Let everyone know what you think that she is. Bring up all of the things that I've told you about. I know that she'll go free, but she won't be able to make a move without every eye being on her. If nothing else, it will finish her here."

"Neghev, you don't have to do this. We could pull her in now and achieve the same thing. For God's sake man, you're in no shape to do anything," Mathis protested.

"Our first priority has to be the elimination of this monster. What I've talked about is a last ditch effort. Mathis, I'm expendable. Perhaps that's why I was selected in the first place."

"Jesus, why are you so willing to die?" Mathis exclaimed, expressing his consternation in angry disgust.

"Perhaps I've already died. Maybe I'm just searching for an excuse to lie down."

Mathis shook his head, unable to imagine what bitter twists of fate would bring a man to such a state. "Okay, if that's the way you want it. Look, I want you to hit me and leave me beside the car door. When I'm found, I'll come up with some story. I'll do everything that I can to lead them away from you. There's a raincoat and a ball cap in the back; take them. By the looks of the weather, you're going to need them." The two men got out of the car and Mathis unlocked Neghev's handcuffs. The Israeli's eyes were like polar ice chips, foreign and unfathomable, as he massaged the circulation back into his hands. A thought occurred to Mathis and he said, "There's a man that Ashford was going to contact. His name is David Stillman. He is Elizabeth Simpson's boyfriend." Mathis saw that Neghev was regarding him quizzically. "Elizabeth Simpson is the blonde woman that you saw with Simonovic on the day you attempted to kill her. Ashford told me that he was going to try to enlist this Stillman's help. Neghev, you could go to him and find out if Ashford learned anything from him. Maybe you could stay with him, while you regain a bit more of your strength."

Neghev could sense the other man's desire, no, his need, to help. "All right. It sounds as good as anything else. It's a place to start, at least. Avery, thank you. I'm going to do everything that I can to stop her. I promise." The two men shook hands and Neghev smiled. In that smile, Mathis discerned genuine warmth that allowed him a glimpse of the true man beneath the battered and seemingly passionless exterior. Mathis was not surprise to find that he truly liked the man and admired his courage, even if he didn't understand it. Neghev leaned heavily against the car, barely able to stand on his own two feet. "You'll have to hit me Neghev. This thing has to look a little authentic anyway."

Neghev was reluctant, but knew that it was necessary if his escape was to have any credibility. Mathis braced himself and Neghev hit him with cobra quickness, high on the left cheekbone. The Sheriff's knees crumpled and he pitched into Neghev's arms. The Israeli gently laid the unconscious Mathis along the length of the front seat. The effort caused his side to flare with a white pain. Neghev looked along the road that led into town. Weariness settled deep into his bones, but he knew that there was much to do this night. He took one last glance at the address, then shredded the slip of paper and scattered it in the wind. He pushed away from the car and began to walk towards town.

Chapter Thirteen: The Seduction

1

Elizabeth spent a long time sitting mesmerized behind her desk, listening to the sound of the driving rain as it beat cryptically upon her window. She could still feel the hot sting of David's hand on her face. Even though the actual physical pain had passed, the emotional torment stung her again and again. She was clear sighted enough to realize that she had goaded him into striking her, but it still typified how far apart they had grown. They were finished, she decided spontaneously. David Stillman was a part of her past and had no place in her future.

The obvious question became what now? There were several options, but only one seemed at all attractive. She would not allow herself to slip back into the shell in which she had suffered the last three years of her life. Despite the grief that it caused, she was glad that David had returned. For the past seven years, she had harbored the notion that he was some sort of romantic ideal for her. She had come to perceive David as a man of few faults...a man who was perfect for her. His return had dispelled those illusions and freed her from the chains of the past. His ridiculous attack on Cynara had only served to illustrate just how flawed he was. Even now, sitting in the dark, she scoffed at the notion that Cynara was some sort of malign entity.

When her thoughts turned to Cynara, Elizabeth found herself a little confused and admittedly a little excited. She was finding it nearly impossible to keep her thoughts away from the other woman for any length of time. Very often she could hear her melodic voice, speaking to her of some mystical aspect of a life which Elizabeth had never experienced. Even more disconcerting was the fact that she would suddenly turn and see Cynara sitting in a chair or simply standing there, watching her with those indescribably beautiful eyes. Cynara provided an ideal which so easily paled Stillman. The Doctor seemed to epitomize everything that Elizabeth admired and aspired to become.

David Stillman had stepped out of her life once and for all and where once she would have seen only bleak emptiness, now she saw a limitless array of prospects. Did she have the courage to reach out and take what she wanted? She considered this and found that she did. What did she want? In perfect candor, she spoke the words aloud; Cynara Simonovic. Even though she had reconciled herself to that truth, she still felt a certain degree of anxiety. David had mentioned that his fatuous beliefs were shared by Jonathon Ashford and Avery Mathis. If this were true, then it was inevitable that they would go after Cynara. She refused to consider the possibility that their story held any validity. Surely they had concocted this nonsense out of some misguided sense of petty jealousy and spite.

Cynara was no killer. Discounting this absurd demonic nonsense, the woman was simply incapable of committing an act of cold blooded murder.

' _Then how do you explain what she did to that man? Or that expression on her face when you first called out to her?'_ Elizabeth had tried to forget that awful moment. There had been no civility or compunction, only an inhuman thirst for pain and blood. Of course, Cynara was fighting for her life. Was it fair to pass judgment upon anyone in such circumstances? She would have to do something to protect Cynara from their stupidity. Elizabeth doubted that Cynara could ever be convicted of any of these ridiculous charges, but scandal and the trauma of being accused just might drive Cynara away. The prospect of losing Cynara frightened Liz profoundly and in that moment, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She would do everything that she could to insulate Cynara from the insanity that was threatening to overwhelm them. Before she could do this, she would have to make Cynara hers. She would take the initiative for once and not simply react as events unfolded around her. She smiled, believing that Cynara would appreciate such assertiveness.

Her mind made up, Elizabeth moved quickly to put her plan into motion. She made arrangements to have Nathaniel looked after for the night, promising Mrs. Miller that she would be back to her normal schedule tomorrow. She bundled up Nathaniel and drove him to the sitter, unmindful of his protests about constantly being shuffled back and forth of late. There was a detached, mechanical quality about her actions that she was either unaware of or deliberately chose to ignore. The heavy rainfall made driving hazardous and she crawled through the night with her usual caution. Despite appearing distant, her mind was alive with the idea that she was setting off along a glorious new road; one that would lead her into a world of passion.

2

Meldrick Jordan was the on duty night dispatcher that Saturday and he was expecting a pretty easy shift. He had settled in with a book of crossword puzzles and a pot of coffee, hoping that the storm would keep the riffraff under their rocks where they belonged. Things were going exactly as he had hoped up until 10:15. He received three calls, two domestic disputes and one traffic accident. He dispatched cars to investigate each call and in the case of the traffic accident, had called the ambulance service. This done, he had went back to his puzzles.

He was trying to come up with a four letter substitute for door handle, when a distress call came in from one of the units. He had cursed, but inside he had felt anxiety wrap its icy fingers around his heart. He prayed that this was not another of the dreaded murder discoveries that had plagued the department over the past month. "This is Central Dispatch, go ahead."

"Dispatch, this is Sheriff Mathis. I'm out here on Justin Drive. Prisoner Lewis Freedman has escaped custody. I want an immediate search organized for this area. Do you copy dispatch?"

The Sheriff's voice seemed weak and strained, as if he were speaking with tremendous effort. "Avery, do you need assistance? An ambulance? What's happened?"

"I was in the process of transferring the prisoner from the hospital to the jailhouse, when my car skidded off the road. The prisoner appeared to be hurt and when I went to help him, he sucker punched me. He escaped on foot, but for some reason he didn't take my revolver. I repeat...he is unarmed. Before I lost consciousness, I saw him moving into the woods, heading back in the direction of the hospital. I'm alright, other than an egg sized lump on my cheek bone. I want Justin drive cordoned off and a search arranged immediately."

"Are you going to be okay until I can get a squad car to you?"

"I'll be fine, just get that roadblock organized," Mathis signed off. He had deliberately misdirected Jordan, hoping that this would provide the hobbled Neghev with adequate time to reach Stillman. He had violated all of his own personal ethics, but he felt no remorse for this. He ran his hand delicately over his aching cheek. Neghev had hit him with a surprising amount of force. Mathis prayed that he would surprise Simonovic as well. He had decided to sit tight and wait for the outcome of Neghev's second attempt upon Simonovic. Irrespective of what happened, he was finished as a police officer. He understood that, but was rather astounded by how little sadness he felt. If Neghev succeeded, then he would stay around long enough to thwart the search effort. If Neghev failed, Mathis would submit a detailed report of everything he knew, along with his resignation. He laid back his head, closed his eyes and waited for the cavalry to come.

3

Jimmy Simms was waiting as well, but for just what, he could not say; a sign from the divine one perhaps. He sat on the bay window's cushion, wrapped in a blue comforter, staring through the window into the night, which was growing steadily more hostile. As he listened to the thunder walk about and watched the lightening eat at the shadows, intuition told him that Semelar now belonged to the witch. He could feel her in everything now. Her aura had permeated every fiber of the town's being, chewing it up like a cancer.

For a short time, he had hoped that the man from the far off land would destroy her, but his television had given testimony to the man's failure. Jimmy detected the presence of a small group of other who suspected the witch. They were making plans to move against her. Jimmy saw that their chances for success were slim. He knew their names; David Stillman and Avery Mathis. It never occurred to Jimmy that he had somehow become attuned to the town's communal consciousness. He was too pragmatic to give much thought to such abstractions, taking this, like everything else that had happened, in stride. Sheriff Mathis had been by to see him, but for some inexplicable reason he could not bring himself to confide in the man. Something told him that this Stillman may be the one to turn to.

A shadow sailed across his window and Jimmy jumped. He saw a form heading straight for him and at first he thought it was the raven. As it drew closer, he saw that it was only a crow seeking sanctuary from the rain. It wheeled off to the right and flew out of sight, leaving Jimmy to tremble in the darkness of his room. She would come for him someday. It would be foolhardy to hope that she might let him live. He had picked up hints of her personality and he knew that she would allow no loose ends to go untied. If he were to live, then she must die; that was the intrinsic truth of the situation.

He climbed down off of the window seat and went to the closet to retrieve his green rain slicker. Slipping it on, he crossed back to the window and slid it up. He looked around the room of his new home, finding that he felt nothing as he left its warmth for the uncertainties of the bitter night. His normal life was a thing of the past. He was a child, yes, but more than this, he was a soldier fighting a war against an overwhelmingly powerful opponent. In this war there could be no surrender, only survival or death.

Until the day came that he could walk out of the shadow of the witch, the concept of a normal life was a foolish and even dangerous notion. He just couldn't spend his days waiting for her to strike. That would drive him insane. He left the shelter of his new home and went to join the battle.

4

Elizabeth steered her Tercel through the gates of the Simonovic estate, mildly surprised to find the gates open on such a night. She pulled up near the entrance and ran to the front door. Ringing the bell, she stood waiting for someone to let her in from the wild weather. The door swung open and Cynara stood there, framed in a soft golden light. She wore an elegant jade satin robe which fell to her ankles. Her feet were clad in delicate silk slippers. Elizabeth drew a deep breath, feeling her heart beat just a little faster. Something in the inviting way in which the woman's ebony hair spilled over her shoulders excited Elizabeth, firing her imagination with the sinfully delicious images. ' _Who is this woman_ ', she asked herself. ' _It doesn't matter, she is here for you and that is all that's important'_.

"Elizabeth, what a pleasant surprise. Please, come out of this dreadful weather," Cynara beamed, seemingly pleased that Elizabeth had come by.

"I'm sorry to come by uninvited. If I'm interrupting anything, then I can come by another time," Elizabeth said, eyeing the satin robe appreciatively. Cynara caught that glance and fielded it cleanly. "Don't be silly. You, of all people, have no need of an invitation, especially after the way that you've helped me over the last few days. I was about to take a sauna, perhaps you would like to join me."

Cynara stood back and gestured for Elizabeth to enter. They walked along the hall and into the library, where they sat in the same positions as they had the previous Saturday. They sat silently for awhile. Gradually, that aura of sexual tension found its way into the room, stilling Elizabeth's anxiety. "I'm sorry to barge in without calling first, that's not at all like me, but I needed someone to talk to and you were the only one that I wanted to see."

"I'm flattered that you would consider me as a confidant," Cynara said, leaning forward. "Elizabeth, the last few days pushed me closer to the edge than I could ever have believed possible, but you were there when I needed you. That's the type of thing that true friendship is made of. I'm indebted to you for that act of kindness and I'm a woman who always repays her debts. There's a special chemistry between the two of us. I felt it from the first moment we met. It is the chemistry that exists between two people who have a special affinity for each other. You pulled me up by the boot straps. If you're feeling down, there isn't anything that I won't set aside to reciprocate. Now tell me, what's the matter?"

Elizabeth seemed reluctant, evidently both confused and agonized. Cynara, seeing this reluctance, rose and crossed over to Liz. Draping a comforting arm about Liz's shoulders, she pulled the woman close to her. Elizabeth could feel the delicious warmth of the other woman's body flow through her, breaking down her reserve. Cynara smiled warmly and cooed in an overstated maternal voice, "Come now, Liz, talk to mommy."

Despite all that had happened, Elizabeth could feel her mood begin to lighten. Normally she might have been offended by the apparent condescension, but she could detect nothing in the other woman's words but affection. "David and I have had a pretty huge argument. It's over between us. Really, it's been over for the past seven years. I just didn't realize it until now."

"I'm sorry Elizabeth," Cynara offered in a somber, muted voice. Her voice flowed like warm rain, both lulling and comforting.

"Well Cynara, that's the thing. I'm not so sure that this wasn't a positive step. Do you know what I mean?"

"I think so," Cynara ventured. "When you're a psychiatrist, there is always a tendency to slip comfortably into that role. I've always tried to keep my career and my personal life distinctly separate. That is not always an easy thing to do. I don't mean to lecture you; please keep that in mind. In you, I see an exceptional beauty and a talented woman. Today's world is full of women who go to great lengths to show how unique and independent they are. They don't seem to realize that they've simply abandoned one cliché for another - the independent feminist. You've accomplished what they set out to do, but still managed to retain the special qualities which distinguish you from the die hard feminists. I find all of that most admirable."

Elizabeth blushed and looked down, not sure how to react to such an extravagant compliment. "Don't be embarrassed," Cynara continued. "I'm being sincere and very analytical. Despite all of your potential, or even in spite of it, you've allowed yourself to fall into one of the most common emotional pitfall...living in the past. You know all too well the amount of misery this can cause. Living in a world of memories does nothing but pull you down. Eventually, you fall right out of sight of the present world. In essence, you become invisible."

Liz could feel hot, lancing tears of shame burning in her eyes. The mildly reproachful tone of Cynara's words cut deep into Elizabeth's soul. Of course Cynara was right. She had let her obsession with David pull her into a shadow land; a place where there was room only for wallowing self pity and silly, capricious dreams of what might have been. She could place no blame on David. No, the fault was all hers. Sorrow and grief ripped at her. She had squandered the better part of seven years, all for the sake of some hollow ideal. "You must think that I'm pathetic? If you do, I wouldn't blame you."

"Elizabeth, you're only human. The only person who has the right to have any expectations of you is yourself. What you've done tonight is the first real step towards liberating yourself from the chains of the past. Start living for the future. Yours is a world of possibilities, but you have to cut your losses. When you've managed that painful feat, you'll find that the world will have a remarkable new brightness. You are the only insurmountable obstacle to the life that you deserve. Of course, every journey has its price," Cynara concluded. Something about those last words brought to life an indistinct, yet elemental fear in Elizabeth. That particular phrase had seemed off center and fraught with innuendo. An alarm blared somewhere in the deep, primitive recesses of Elizabeth's mind, but then Cynara smiled and clasped her wrist. That alarm fell silent for the final time. Cynara stood, pulling Elizabeth to her feet as well.

"Anyway, enough of this somber drama. Just because the weather is horrendous, doesn't mean our moods have to match it. I think that I have the ultimate cheer up scheme, designed specifically for people suffering from sinking depression; first a little excitement and then a little relaxation. Now come with me." Holding Elizabeth's wrist firmly, Cynara towed her along. Cynara's good humor was infectious. Elizabeth could feel herself succumbing to its spell. What marvels did this woman have in store for her now? She suspected that life with Cynara would be surprise after surprise, wonder upon wonder.

Cynara led Elizabeth along the main hall and into the large kitchen which was dominated by a central utility island. Mystified, Elizabeth looked at the other woman questioningly. Cynara grinned, but made no effort to elaborate. "Patience is a virtue, my dear. Just a moment longer."

Set in the rear wall of the kitchen was a black door, plain and unadorned save for a small brass lock and handle. Cynara approached the door and taking a key ring from the peg board above the sink, unlocked it. From where she stood, Liz could see the first three steps of a stairwell descending into the darkness. Cynara switched on the light and beckoned Liz to follow. As the two women went down the stairs, Elizabeth's scalp began to tingle and the tiny hairs on her forearm began to stand on end. The basement was huge, divided by a central hallway which ran along its entire length. Three doors were set into the right wall, but only a single door into the left. "This is my secret. No other person has been allowed to go beyond that door. You are the first that I've considered to be worthy of the privilege."

With this pronouncement, Cynara reached deep into the pocket of her satin robe and produced a small gold key. Going to the door on the left, she inserted the key into the lock and turned, swinging the door inward. At that moment, Elizabeth was again struck by the impression of having reached some crucial juncture. One road was well lit, leading back to the sedate, secure life of her past. The other road was veiled in mist and stood before her like a shimmering mirage. Its seductive whisper hinted at a promise of mystery and excitement. Elizabeth guessed that everything beyond this door would symbolize the lifestyle that this new road would offer her. She hesitated only briefly and then stepped through the door, following Cynara. The dark lady flipped another switch and the entire room came alive in golden shafts of light.

' _The dark lady? Odd that I would think of her as the dark lady,'_ Elizabeth thought. Yet somehow, here in this place of mystery, the reference seemed most appropriate.

Elizabeth saw that the room was rectangular and ran the entire length of the house. Lights were set into the ceiling at regular fifteen foot intervals. They created an interlocking corridor of brightness that did not illuminate the walls. Cynara looked directly into Elizabeth's eyes and smiled her esoteric smile. She then began to flip a series of switches. One by one, tube lights sprang to life along both walls of the chamber. Elizabeth gasped in amazement, awed by the spectacle unfolding before her. The flip of each switch revealed a different oil painting. The final light revealed a glass case that held an object that glistened with near blinding brilliance. "My God Cynara, where on earth did you get all of these?"

Cynara beamed with both satisfaction and pride. "What you see is the end result of a fifteen year ongoing search for a certain type of art. These pictures have all been painted by different artists, some famous but most obscure. These artists were trying to capture the nature of the eternal conflict between good and evil. I've collected them and deliberately kept them away from the world. This is my sanctuary, my retreat from the banal and the mundane. You're the first person that I've ever felt inclined to share this with. Come and enjoy."

"I don't know what to say, Cynara, other than thank you. I feel honored," Elizabeth murmured, feeling more than a little overwhelmed by this enclave to the other woman's secret passion. They proceeded from painting to painting and as they went, Elizabeth was struck by the conflicting emotion that had been captured on each canvas. Each painting was similar, in that, they were done in dark, brooding colors which were both evocative and disturbing. All were austere, surrealistic portrayals of the grim battle between God and his ancient enemy, Lucifer. Mixed in with these strictly religious themes, were a number of paintings depicting both men and women committing a variety of different sins...a veritable cornucopia of excess and debauchery. At first glance, these painting were absolutely repulsive, but beneath this initial impression, there existed a magnetic allure that seemed to compel the eye and hold it. The pictures were troubling, but their dark nature seemed oddly congruent with the woman who now possessed them. "These are absolutely incredible. I've never seen anything quite like them, they're so evocative, so captivating. There seems to be some discordant note that rings through all of them."

"They are perspectives of men who saw the world as a battle ground for a greater conflict. Some of these artists only produced one such painting in their entire career. It was as if they were touched by some divine inspiration that never visited them again. They're from different countries and cultures, yet they share a common ingredient. Is this common ingredient a mere coincidence? Possibly, but I tend to think otherwise."

Listening to Cynara expound on the philosophical implications of her collection, Elizabeth realized that Cynara possessed a complexity and profundity that she would never be able to grasp. The final painting was a family portrait that gave Elizabeth a start. "Cynara, is that you?"

"As difficult as it may be to believe, it is not," she replied, eyes fixed on the painting of a family doing their best to appear serious and regal. "This is a nineteenth-century portrait of an Eastern European family...the Saravics. The woman, who bears such a strong resemblance to me, was also named Cynara. I acquired this portrait while visiting Romania. It cost me a king's ransom, but I think that you can see the attraction."

Liz looked from the portrait to Cynara and then back to the portrait. "The resemblance is uncanny. What became of this woman?"

"Quite frankly, no one knows with any degree of certainty," Cynara replied, but seemed to convey the impression that she knew more. She continued to stare at the picture, absorbed in the unearthly canvas reflection. Then, she grasped Elizabeth's wrist and led her over to the glass case. There, on a large blue velvet cushion, lay the most exquisite dagger that Elizabeth had ever laid eyes upon. Its haft was emerald and ruby encrusted, while its blade was long and curving, creating a paradox of fragility and menace. It came to a point, which had been formed from a single diamond. Vertical slashes had been fashioned into the blade and these slashes had been inlaid with gold. "I don't know what to say. This is beautiful beyond words."

Cynara gazed at the dagger, mesmerized by the harmonic balance of lethal beauty. "Don't be deceived by its exquisite appearance, it is a deadly killing tool."

Elizabeth felt the now familiar shiver that the new and unexpected facets of this woman's personality induced. Cynara seemed lost in the dagger's lustrous spell, but then she shook her head and the enchantment seemed broken. "Well then, that was the excitement that I promised, now for the relaxation."

The two women walked to the door, where Cynara turned back to Liz. "I have shown you the inner sanctum of my soul. This place has now become yours as well. Sharing a secret is like a bonding of souls. Here, this is yours now," Cynara intoned and extended her hand, dropping the small gold key into Elizabeth's upturned palm. Elizabeth felt touched and staggered by the honor that had been conveyed upon her. "Thank you."

"Now, follow me," the witch prompted, privately pleased with the progress of the night's enchantment. The two women stepped out into the hall and Cynara locked the door behind them. It never occurred to Liz that she had possession of the gold key.

5

David Stillman lay idly upon his bed while the IBM word processor sat humming reproachfully as if in scorn of his indolence. When he had returned from his disastrous encounter with Elizabeth, David tried to write the episode out of his thoughts. In the past, he had always found writing to be a therapeutic way of dealing with his problems. For a time it worked and he had actually managed to write a few new pages, but gradually thoughts of the day's debacle crept into his mind. Eventually, they robbed him of his ability to concentrate and he had given up for the day.

Now, laying here, listening to the steady downpour of rain, David was freely beleaguered by a whole range of unpleasant images and memories. He managed to make one resolution...he would finish his book as quickly as possible and get the hell out of Semelar. He harbored no rancor towards Elizabeth, but he shared her conviction that what was done was done and what was dead could never be resurrected. He was sadly mistaken if he believed that life could be held in suspension while he went off to find himself.

He was startled to his feet, as the room reverberated with a loud thud. Something had slammed against his motel room door. Stillman ran to the door, hoping against hope that it might be Elizabeth. He threw the door open and a figure pitched forward onto his carpet. Stillman knelt down and turned the man over. His face was battered and he was barely conscious. Stillman did not recognize the man, though some instinct suggested that he should have. The man stirred and he looked up at David. His eyes cleared and he whispered, "I think that Jonathon Ashford told you about me. My name is Lewis Freedman and I've come for your help."

6

Cynara had led Elizabeth to another one of the doors set in the opposite wall of the hallway. This door was unlocked and Cynara ushered Liz inside. The room housed a large, well equipped gym. Liz turned to Cynara with a sly smile, "I knew that there had to be a secret to how you keep so slim and toned."

"Well, I must admit that this place has helped me stave off the effects of age and gravity, but tonight I'm here only to relax. Nothing is more relaxing, more heavenly, than a good, long sauna." She led Liz into an adjacent change room and selected a towel and robe for herself. She then shed her satin robe, intentionally providing Elizabeth with a prolonged view of her glorious body. Elizabeth could feel her pulse begin to race in reaction to the other woman's nudity. She marveled at how tiny the doctor's waist seemed. Cynara smiled at her guest. "I'll just go in. When you are ready, please join me."

She opened the door and disappeared. A cloud of steam wafted from the sauna, fogging the nearby mirrors. The steam was an external reflection of the heat that was building within Elizabeth. It was no longer possible to deny her yearning for the other woman. The attraction that existed between the two was as strong as the inexorable attraction of a moth to the flame. She wanted Cynara, wanted to hold her, to feel the other woman's heart beating against hers. That was no longer at questionable. The question was how? She feared that any brazen advance would offend Cynara and end their friendship. This was a risk that she wasn't willing to take. Better to be discreet and draw Cynara into an open exchange of emotions. Cynara had definitely been demonstrative, often touching Elizabeth, but this could be misleading. She freed herself from her clothing, which suddenly seemed too confining and deciding to forego the terry cloth robe, entered the sauna.

The palpable wave of heat nearly robbed her of her breath and she could feel a layer of perspiration form upon her silky skin. Cynara sat against the far wall and as Elizabeth entered, gazed over her body appreciatively. Her scrutiny was honest and open and consequently, not as lecherous as a sly glance might have seemed. "It looks like I'm not the only one who has been going to great lengths to keep trim. You've succeeded admirably, I might add."

"Thank you," Elizabeth replied with a smile and a shrug and then drifted over to join the other woman. She folded a leg beneath herself and lounged casually on the bench. Her body, indeed her senses, had become attuned to the other woman's presence. She felt the heat working within her, melting her inhibitions. Her nipples were erect and they stirred with each gentle whisper of heat. Conversation had ceased, now they spoke to each other in the gentle way that their eyes played over each others body. Cynara's nipples were also erect. She closed her eyes and she leaned her head against the wooden wall. "I can't remember it ever being so hot in here."

Elizabeth clasped the bench tightly, trying to control the urge to simply take the other woman in her arms. She was feeling an ache building in the dark depths of her womb. With her eyes closed and her hair spilling over her shoulders, Cynara Simonovic was the very portrait of physical beauty. Elizabeth's ache transcended lust. Cynara embodied everything that Liz found to be sacred. "Cynara, I want to thank you for what you've done for me. You've added whole new dimensions to my world. I hope that I can repay you somehow."

"You do, simply by being my friend," she said softly, regarding Elizabeth with a level, unfaltering gaze that evaporated Liz's uncertainties like water and flame. She leaned forward and placed her hands upon Cynara's shoulders. The woman's eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing. Elizabeth gently turned Cynara onto her stomach, having her lay full length along the bench. Then she knelt behind her, drinking in the lovely lines of Cynara's thighs and buttocks. She placed the flat of her palms on Cynara's lower back, just below the swell of flesh. Her gentle touch elicited a shiver and a murmured groan. Elizabeth leaned forward, trembling as her breasts brushed over the satiny skin of Cynara's back. Trying to resolve herself against her own flagging control, Elizabeth whispered, "Close your eyes. Relax. Block out everything but the feel of my fingers on your skin."

She began to move her palms, in small circular motions, over the smooth landscape of flesh. She continued to expand the circles until they traversed a path from firm, lovely shoulders to the intoxicating, dune swell of buttocks. Elizabeth moved with deliberate slowness, meaning to maximize the sensation of each stroke. The natural texture of Cynara's skin, augmented by the slickness of the steam generated an electric sensation that flowed back through Elizabeth's fingertips, coursing through her veins into her heart and beyond. Cynara was also feeling the affects of Elizabeth's tender ministrations. Her muscles danced and trembled with delight as she constantly shifted her body to prolong the contact with the probing fingers. Elizabeth clasped Cynara's wrists and extended her arms above her head. Then she began to massage the exotic beauty's shoulders, squeezing and probing, removing all of the tightness from her well sculpted shoulders. With a sense of heady satisfaction, Liz could see that Cynara was being driven to the very limits of self control. She placed a long nail on the Doctor's spine and drew it, with studied deliberation, along her back to the cleft of her buttocks. Cynara shivered, arching her back in the wake of the finger's passing, and cried out. "OH Liz, I don't... it feels so good, but, I don't..."

"Do you want me to stop?" Elizabeth breathed. Her voice was feathery light, with a mild teasing edge.

"No, please don't," Cynara pleaded. Liz placed her hand upon Cynara's shoulder and pushed her back onto her stomach. Elizabeth turned her attention back to the woman's enticing body. She placed her hands on Cynara's curving hips and slowly drew them along her flanks, until her palms cupped the side swell of Cynara's full breasts. Elizabeth hand's melded themselves to the contours of each warm globe, as each woman experienced a mutual wave of delight; rocking their bodies and raising them higher and higher towards the ultimate explosion of sensation and light. With a fluid, graceful movement, Elizabeth stood and straddled the trembling woman, lowering herself onto Cynara. She had lost all sense of time, not being able to tell if it were rushing or crawling by. She forced her fingers beneath Cynara, gently kneading the warm, pliable flesh of her breasts. Her thumbs brushed across each nipple, raising them into electric knots. Cynara's entire body quivered at the touch and she cried out in ecstasy, raising herself to her elbows and twisting to face Liz. Each woman was flushed with the heat and the intensity of the passion that they were experiencing. Cynara's voice quavered as she spoke. "Please. I just can't take anymore teasing. I've longed to have you since the first time that I laid my eyes upon you. You've driven me past all control. Please make love to me. I love you and I want to feel your love for me. Take me Elizabeth."

As Cynara implored Elizabeth to conquer her, Liz could detect the strength of the longing in her voice. The dark haired beauty virtually shook with desire. Elizabeth smiled and whispered, "Don't fret, from this day on you are mine."

Liz pushed herself away from Cynara, tenting her fingers on the other woman's chest to keep her at arm's length. She knew that she had succeeded in breaking down the other woman's defenses. The notion was intoxicating. Cynara had become entangled in Elizabeth's passion and now she lay waiting to be fulfilled. With a soft hand upon a velvety thigh, Elizabeth pushed until Cynara lay on her back. Her breasts heaved rhythmically, as she waited breathlessly for Elizabeth to begin. Liz leaned forward and kissed Cynara on the lips. The kiss was prolonged and sensuous...an affirmation of the love that was growing between the two. As their lips met, Elizabeth pulled Cynara upright. Her body felt as limp and as light as a feather in Elizabeth's hands. She knew that the other woman had relinquished all control of her senses.

The two broke the kiss and kneeling face to face, began to touch each other. Their fingers blazed exploratory paths over the landscape of each other's body. Liz traced the ridges of Cynara's classic cheek bones and then played over the outline of her splendid lips. Cynara's body shook like a leaf as she opened her mouth and drew Elizabeth's fingers into the warm wet depths. "Feel the touch. Everything else is inconsequential. The only thing that matters, the soul of your very world, is focused through my fingertips. Can you feel that touch, lover?"

For emphasis, Elizabeth dragged her nails along the insides of the other woman's thigh and across her stomach. Cynara's response was emphatic. "Yes I can feel you near me, flowing through me, into me."

Their mutual exploration went on, mindless of time, until the two had reached the highest plain of exploration, of anticipation - the place where the need to touch, to be touched, replaced thought. "Oh God Elizabeth, I never realized how marvelous love could be, how fulfilling. You're everything that I've ever dreamed of, waited for."

Elizabeth kissed Cynara and held her face in her hands. The other woman's dark eyes were alive; the gold flecks glowing like torches. She had been tantalized until she was swollen to bursting with passion. She had completely fallen under Elizabeth's spell. Her absolute surrender seemed to excite Elizabeth like nothing ever had.

"Now my sweet beauty, lay back and let your body and soul open to me," Liz intoned. Her voice was husky and her blue eyes blazed as she pushed Cynara onto her back. "You are so achingly beautiful."

Liz leaned forward and kissed Cynara's breast, sucking the nipple until it swelled against her tongue. She alternated her attentions between each breast, teasing them to their firmest and fullest state. She laid her body full length against Cynara's, trying to subdue her thrashing. The sensation of perspiration soaked skin on skin shook Liz to her very core. She could feel tears of joy running from her eyes to mingle with her perspiration.

"I love you," she breathed as she kissed her way along the other woman's torso. She licked and squeezed the tight flesh of the witch's abdomen before delicately nipping the muscles of her inner thigh. Cynara's hands cupped her own breasts and she pinched her distended nipples with her thumbs. Liz lifted one of Cynara's long legs from the bench and began to suck her toes. As she did, her hand caressed the full length of Cyn's inner thigh, making her way to the sloping roundness of her buttocks. She dug her nails harshly into the solid muscle there, while her tongued snaked over the soles of Cynara's feet. Cynara, for her part, rolled her eyes and arched her back. Her breathing was labored and came in sharp gasps. "Please, I plead for mercy. I'm floating Liz - light, space, everything is rushing at me. I feel as if I'm imploding, collapsing into myself. I swear that by everything that I hold sacred. Please be merciful."

"Soon now, Cynara," Liz whispered, ecstatic with the carnal enchantment she had visited upon this ethereal creature.

7

Her tongue teases Cynara's ankle as she holds the quivering limb. It glides over the swell of her calve, luxuriating in the silky texture of the skin. Ever so slowly, Elizabeth's mouth courses its way along the leg, sucking and biting gently as it goes. Cynara's womanhood is swollen with need and for both women, the distance, the length of thigh, is the most crucial thing in the universe. Cynara's eyes are wide and imploring, beseeching the blonde to hurry her pace, while Elizabeth is intent on prolonging the moment. For Elizabeth, the need to perfectly orchestrate Cynara's orgasm is consuming. Her mouth crawls along the thigh, leaving small love bites as reminders of its passing. Cynara squirms and trembles, her hands clasping and unclasping as she relinquishes control of her senses for the first time in her existence.

Finally, Elizabeth reaches the confluence of Cynara's river of passion. Cynara places her hands under Liz's chin and raises her head, until their eyes meet. Both are intoxicated with anticipation; Cynara to the point where words fail her. She mouths the word please and then drops her head back to the bench. Elizabeth is so close now. She can feel the heat radiating from Cynara's womanhood. She places her fingers along the moist gates and throws them open. With the tip of her tongue, she brushes past the statue of passion that is Cynara's clitoris. The woman cries out, shaking the cedar walls with her scream.

Cynara places her thighs over Elizabeth's shoulders, holding her tightly in place. As Liz begins to tenderly explore Cynara's depths, she is aware of her own swollen breasts as they press against the wood beneath her. They ache and call to her for attention. She realizes that she is verging on losing her frail grip on control. She extends her arm and takes Cynara's hand in hers. Elizabeth begins to trace the full length of her lover's womanhood, plunging deeper with each stroke.

Cynara is moaning incessantly, nearing the pinnacle of physical and spiritual release. Her hips undulate frantically. Liz encircles her waist, grasping her buttocks, trying to control her wild thrashing. Elizabeth begins to move her tongue in a rhythm that she knows will push Cynara past the brink. Her own heart picks up the cadence of her tongue; beating faster, thrusting faster. Understanding some of what the glorious beauty beneath her must be feeling Elizabeth feels Cynara's thighs are stiffening and turning to stone. Her back arches as her large breasts rise and fall like the tides. She can't seem to contain her ecstasy because she is screaming wildly, calling Elizabeth's name.

The walls seem to have receded. Elizabeth has the distinct impression that the two women are floating in air. Her contact with Cynara has become the ultimate reality. Just then all movement in Cynara's body ceases, transforming her into a pillar of stone. She holds rock still for what seems like an eternity. Then the firmness gradually abates, until Cynara melts into putty. Elizabeth places one final adoring kiss at the centre of Cynara's womanhood and then climbs up beside her. She kisses her breasts and listens as the witch's heart calms its thunderous beat.

After a long time, Cynara kisses Elizabeth and whispers, "I never believed that the act of being loved could be so gratifying, so fulfilling. Now you are the one who has shown me dimensions of the universe that I never knew to exist. I promise to love you always for this."

With this, Cynara reaches lovingly for Liz's aching breast and sighs, "And now it is your turn to visit heaven."

8

The night had become a raging battle between heaven and earth. Titanic cannon bursts of thunder rocked the night, while mighty bolts of lightening set the sky ablaze. The rain that had fallen sporadically since last Tuesday, now strafed the ground with watery pellets. The county storm sewer system was fast approaching the limits of its capacity and still the rain showed no sign of stopping. On the contrary, the downpour seemed to be intensifying with each passing hour. At different points in the lowlands, large pieces of pavement were being undercut by the rushing water and then washed away. Potholes served as tiger traps for any one foolish enough to be driving about on such a night.

David Stillman stood at his motel room's small window, watching the rain pound the pavement of the decrepit parking lot. His thoughts were scattered and confused. He had listened wordlessly while Freedman recounted his tale. Stillman had watched the man carefully, searching for some telltale sign of madness, but he had seen or heard none. The man was quite sane. Freedman was perhaps the most imaginative, enigmatic man that David had ever come across, but he displayed a pragmatic streak which decried instability. If what he had just told Stillman proved to be entirely true, then Elizabeth Simpson stood to lose not only her life, but her very soul. "What do you suggest that we do?"

"Nothing...or more precisely, I suggest that you do nothing. There is little point in risking both of our lives. If I should die, there must be someone left to carry on the fight. This bitch has had her way for far too long. She is powerful, but ignorance is her greatest weapon. She has been exposed and the circle of those who know is expanding. It's just a matter of time before someone comes up with a way to destroy her," Neghev theorized.

Neghev lay on Stillman's bed, trying to recuperate from his trek through the rain. The two mile trek had extracted a heavy toll from Neghev. With the pain had come the grim realization that he could never conquer Simonovic without some sort of divine intervention.

' _You're not even sure that she can be killed_ ,' he thought. It was his theory, however, that nothing in the universe held ultimate power, save for God perhaps and he seemed unwilling to use it. To Neghev, everything was vulnerable and everything had a weakness that could be exploited. Cynara was not without her Achilles heel, but she had thus far managed to keep it well concealed. Even if he had known, he was in no condition to exploit that knowledge. Time. He desperately needed time to heal, but something in the ferocity of the storm beyond Stillman's door told him that he would not have it.

"Jesus man, do you think that you'll be able to do anything against her. Look at yourself, you're half dead!" Stillman exclaimed, in an eerie echo of Neghev's own thoughts.

"I'm hoping that nothing happens for the next few days so that I can regain a little strength," Neghev replied without much conviction.

"And what about Liz...are we just going to let this bitch take her?" Stillman demanded becoming increasingly more agitated.

"I can understand that you're worried, but I don't believe that it's Cynara's intention to physically harm Elizabeth. It's imperative that we come to understand exactly why Cynara desires Elizabeth. When you really want something, you often become all the more vulnerable.

"Listen Freedman, you say that Liz is in no danger of any obvious kind, but God damn it man, she's already been changed. It's like she's under some kind of fucking spell and if we don't stop this Cynara Simonovic soon there may be nothing left of the old Elizabeth to save. We can't afford to wait," Stillman concluded passionately. Neghev could hear the discordant note of despair in his voice. An air of defeat hovered about this man. There was a flaw somewhere in the other man's soul. He wore failure like an Albatross. Neghev winced inside. He could feel the burden of confronting this evil settle firmly upon his sagging shoulders...just as it always had. He had always accepted this weight with characteristic stoicism, but he had never felt so close to faltering as he did now. They were both contemplating their respective futures, when a sharp rap came at the door.

Stillman was so startled that he actually jumped. He looked to Neghev, who whispered, "Is it the police?"

Stillman pulled back the shade a crack and scanned the lot. There was no one to be seen. He strained to get a glimpse of who might be at the door, but he didn't have the proper angle. As he looked back to Neghev again, the rapping came once more. "I don't think that it's the Police."

Neghev pondered this for a moment and then gestured for Stillman to open the door. Feeling his nerves jangle, David turned the handle and eased the door open about three inches. A small boy in a rain slicker gazed up at him uncertainly. After a second, he realized that it was the Simms boy. He threw the door wide and ushered him in. Jimmy stepped into the small room and stripped off the raincoat. He surveyed the room, taking a particularly long look at Neghev. Something about what he saw seemed to dismay the boy because he frowned and creased his brow. "You're hurt bad, aren't you?"

For his part, the Israeli was immediately impressed by the boy's apparent mettle. He knew that the child had only recently lost his mother and his father to Cynara's treachery, but his spirit remained unbroken. He had exhibited a lot less strength after Galina and Delia had died. "Yes, I'm badly hurt."

The boy nodded solemnly and then glanced at Stillman. The man's aura caught his attention. For the first time since he had discovered his ability, he was confronted with a person who radiated a gray aura. This startled Jimmy and though he had no idea what it might signify, something about the mute, blandness of the gray was both fatalistic and terrifying. This puzzlement must have shown on the boy's face, for Stillman noted the boy's open bewilderment and asked, "Is there something wrong Jimmy?"

Jimmy shook his head and turned back to Neghev, glad to avert his eyes from that dismal gray. Now that he was here, he didn't know what to say or where to begin. He was unsure of what they knew, but he could sense the gathering forces of darkness around him and saw that there was no turning back. Indeed, there was nothing to turn back to. As a child is apt to do, Jimmy decided to plunge straight ahead. "The witch is getting stronger everyday. Something horrible is going to happen here. Soon, I think."

Stillman grimaced. All of this bizarre shit was getting to be too much for him to handle. Did he really believe any of this? With his aggravation showing, he demanded, "What are you talking about? What are you doing out on a night like this?"

Jimmy was about to answer, when Neghev cut him short. "How are you able to tell what she is up to?"

"I can feel her. She's like a black slime that's sort of oozing over everything. She's been getting stronger ever since I first saw her color. She made my father kill my mother and then himself. She'll try to kill me soon," he declared, shaking as he gave voice to his innermost fear.

David threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of exasperation. "Jesus, this is too much. You people sound like something out of the Twilight Zone. First I have to buy a story about a psychotic demon and now a clairvoyant nine year old. We're wasting time, Freedman."

Jimmy blinked. Something was wrong with what Stillman had just said. "His name is not Freedman."

Both men were caught off guard by the boy's denial. They glanced at each other and then back to the boy, who seemed perceptibly shocked by his own statement. Neghev's eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the boy carefully. "What did you just say?"

"I said that your name is not Freedman. It's something else. I can't pronounce it, but it starts with an N," Jimmy replied, still appearing confused, but beginning to understand that the special region of his mind was generating the information. Obliquely, it occurred to him that new aspects of his ability seemed to present themselves only during moments of crisis. Never before had he been able to read another person's thoughts. This gave him an eerie feeling; as if he were spying. "You came from a country. It's all hot and dry, lots of sand. Israel."

Stillman was astounded. Neghev's facial reaction to the boy's words verified their truth. "Jesus, he's telling the truth, isn't he?"

"Yes," Neghev confirmed without taking his eyes off of this incredible boy. "My real name is Zved Neghev and I am from Israel. Boy, why have you come here?"

"I've come because I'm afraid. She wants to kill me and I have nowhere else to go. No one else will believe me. She is getting stronger, feeding off of some force in the town. She's not going to leave until she has destroyed everyone that knows about her." He looked about wildly and then added, "She knows who I am and she knows who you are. Both of you."

Zved pressed the boy for concrete answers, for some clue to the evil mystery. "What did you mean when you said that she is feeding?"

Jimmy looked perplexed, struggling to formulate some type of rational answer. "The pictures in my head are confusing. There is a pure white field of color and it is eaten by something black and awful. I can't explain it any better than that. It has something to do with a very beautiful blonde lady. I don't understand it, only that it is very bad."

Stillman's eyes had grown as wide as silver dollars. He's talking about Liz, he realized, cementing the dread that had been eating at him all day. His literary mind provided him with the imagination to draw the necessary connections, "Oh God, he's talking about Liz. You were right...she is after Liz for some reason. What you're talking about is evil corrupting goodness. I think that your vision means that Cynara is gaining strength through Liz. Neghev, you were right. It is Liz that she's after."

The trio lapsed into a dreary, brooding silence. David was shackled by the chains of misery and the sinking feeling of impending disaster. Liz would soon be lost, if she wasn't even now. Grief threatened to overwhelm him and he sat down on the edge of his bed before he collapsed. Jimmy finally broke the silence. "Please let me stay. I can help. I can sense her and know when she is coming. I don't want to be alone when she comes. I'm...I'm afraid."

Neghev felt his heart wrench. The boy was extraordinary and it was easy to lose sight of the fact that he was still only a child. "You can stay. If she does come, we will face her together."

The three sat and listened to the wind as it thundered through the night sky; sometimes sounding mournful and forlorn, sometimes sounding savage and wild. They were a rather pitiful army when all things were considered. Still, they took comfort in each other's company.

9

While the three formed their feeble alliance, Cynara made good on her promise to reciprocate. Elizabeth had shaken Cynara, reached her in way that she had never before experienced. In the past, all of her physical encounters had been purely play acting, but back in the sauna Elizabeth had rocked Cynara to the darkest corners of her soul. Had Jimmy Simms been able to see Cynara's aura at that precise moment, he would have seen traces of yellow light in the unending fields of blackness. It had been Cynara's intention to corrupt Elizabeth and possess her, but she was astounded to find that she, herself, had been touched. Though she had never visualized it, Cynara was forced to admit that she was falling victim to an intoxication that went beyond the conqueror's desire for triumph and domination. What she felt for Elizabeth was more than lust. Not love, but definitely more than simple lust.

After she regained her composure, Cynara took Elizabeth by the hand and led her to the gym's shower. She ushered the blonde beauty, so much like a Nordic goddess, into the black marble enclosure and setting the water to hot, directed the spray onto the two of them. The hot water evoked tremors of pleasure in both of them as it washed away the perspiration. Cynara's body was still tingling from the memory of Elizabeth's lovemaking. "You were wonderful. I've never felt so loved. Thank you Elizabeth."

She moved behind Elizabeth and encircling her waist with one arm, placed her other hand delicately under Liz's chin, raising her face into the caressing spray. Elizabeth closed her eyes, relishing the electric sensation of Cynara's breasts as they pressed against her back. Cynara lavished tender kisses along the length of her neck, occasionally stopping to bite the firm muscle. Each love bite led Liz to shiver. Cynara held Elizabeth's breasts together and directed them into the arousing spray. Elizabeth could feel her legs turn to rubber as the caressing hands and fingers worked their magic on her most sensitive areas. Cynara held the quivering woman tightly, while she nibbled at her ear lobe and played her tongue into the small opening of Elizabeth's ear. "The world is a place of infinite possibility, my darling Elizabeth, but you've lived your life as if there was only one world. Tonight you've come to be acquainted with another of the many worlds around us. I will show you that the only limits to be found are in your own mind."

As she spoke, Cynara took up a bar of soap and commenced lathering Elizabeth's body. She soaped each breast, exerting a sensual pressure upon each nipple, until then stood as erect as proud guardsmen. Liz laid her head back upon Cynara's shoulder, sensing more than seeing the way that her breasts were responding to her lover's attention. Cynara watched the swelling globes hungrily. "Ah your body is trembling with an undeniable passion. That passion is like a clarion call, heralding the start of your journey down the road to spiritual apotheosis. I will be there to help you along that road. I've been there. I know the pitfalls. Please let me help you."

To punctuate her request, Cynara abruptly drew her nails over Elizabeth's distended nipples. Liz's resulting cry was loud and visceral. "Oh God in heaven, Yes Cynara. Show me!"

Elizabeth's state of distraction caused Cynara to smile. The foreign feelings of before had begun to subside, as the old thirst for conquest once again asserted itself. She turned off the spray and led Elizabeth out of the shower area, using a large towel to remove the excess water from the blonde's glistening skin.

Cynara led Elizabeth through the halls of her mansion to her bed chamber; the scene of her greatest victory. Cynara became aware of the invisible eyes that looked down upon them. She knew that her master would be watching her moment of triumph. Cynara was a natural exhibitionist and the prospect of being observed in all of her glorious splendor excited her.

As they entered Cynara's bedroom, Elizabeth was visited by the memory of her nocturnal fantasy in which she and Cynara had made love on a bed, draped with black satin sheets. Her body quivered in response to the vivid recollection of that forbidden passion. If Cynara was symbolic of that forbidden fruit, then Elizabeth intended to gorge herself on the juices. They came to a halt at the foot of the large brass bed. Cynara took Elizabeth in her arms and held her tightly. "Tonight we've come together. Something tells me that this is how it was ordained to be. From this day forth, you shall be my love, my one passion."

As the storm pounded relentlessly at its old enemy, the world, and time slipped by with the fleetness of quicksilver, Cynara devastated Elizabeth, conquering her completely and utterly. As the gap between orgasm and aftermath dwindled, the thinking, reasoning Elizabeth was reduced to a jumble of primitive nerve reactions. Finally, she climaxed in a protracted explosion that tore her soul from its moorings and commended it into the hands of the witch. Nathaniel and David, the business and life that she had built all became meaningless trappings in a life that no longer mattered. Only the woman who was firing her senses mattered. In the moments before her body could stand no more and sought refuge in unconsciousness, Elizabeth felt Cynara move up beside her and whisper, "Now is the time. You must decide. There are worlds for us to conquer, but every triumph has its price. You shall be a queen and your power will know no limits. These gifts are mine to give and yours to accept, if only you will surrender your soul to me."

Elizabeth's mind reeled. It floated through a region where coherent thought had given way to raw physical sensation. Nothing mattered but the touch. Life had been reduced to that touch and its insured continuation. Beyond this, there was a field of stars and each star was a different possibility, a different road into unknowable futures. They could only be accessed through her lover. Elizabeth was certain of that. As she spiraled down into the void, she managed a single word. With all of the power and emphasis that her exhausted body could muster, Elizabeth Simpson screamed her single word of capitulation. "Yes."

10

Cynara smiled broadly, quietly savoring her moment of victory. She need only perform the ritual and this vision of perfection would be hers. She indulged herself by running her fingers over the lovely skin of Elizabeth's body, which had gone limp. After a time, she rose and made her way out of the bedroom, along the silent halls and into the basement. She stood before the door to her art room. The door was locked, but locks were the devices of the natural world. Cynara's body began to shimmer, losing its substance and color, until she had become transparent. Then, moving as if she were being spurred on by a breeze, she passed through the heavy oak door like a shade. Once inside, her body regained its solidity. Cynara could not resist the urge to preen. Once inside, she began to float towards the glass case. It was the same simple trick that had so mesmerized the Cooper whelp.

Cynara admired its deadly lines, pleased with the blacksmith's superlative craftsmanship. He had forged one of the most beautiful killing tools that she had ever laid eyes upon. The dagger exemplified the way in which Cynara viewed herself...beautiful to look upon, yet deadly to face. She reached for the dagger, her hands passing through the glass as if it were water, lifting it with great reverence from its velvet pillow. This was to be her angel's instrument of ascension. Despite the years of searching, the decades of anticipation, Cynara was surprised by just how profoundly this mortal had moved her. In the past three weeks, there had been moments when she had felt alien to herself, as though the seeds of some new and radically altered personality were germinating in the dark chambers of her soul. This strangeness had been an element that she had not foreseen and she would have to exercise great caution in dealing with it and the world beyond tonight. She knew that opening your soul to another granted them a subtle leverage that could be used to manipulate and if necessary, destroy. Still, when Elizabeth held her, Cynara found it exceedingly difficult to retain her single minded view of the world and maxims of life.

Cynara moved quickly through the halls, now possessed by the eagerness to complete the turning. She had thrown open the chamber door and was about to step through the doorway, when a sudden image exploded in her mind like fireworks in a July sky. The image was stark, savage and caught Cynara totally off guard, causing her to nearly fumble the dagger. She leaned against the door frame for support and blinked her eyes. The room and the shadow that was Elizabeth Simpson as she slumbered on the bed, were both gone. In their place, a black curtain shimmered, providing a backdrop for a grim and fatalistic portrait of infamy; a possible future perhaps? Cynara didn't know, though the entire experience had taken on an air of premonition. A hand, with long aristocratic fingers topped by blood red, lacquered nails, clasped a dagger that dripped with dark viscous blood. The dagger looked oddly familiar and after a few seconds consideration, Cynara realized that it was the very one that had conveyed her into the world of eternal darkness. She looked down and moaned softly. There on the ground lay the witch herself. Her mouth was slack, but her eyes were wide open and they blazed with horror, pain and betrayal. Below her left breast, a jagged, ugly wound spoke of the treachery that had befallen her.

A cry escaped Cynara's lips, though she may not have been aware of it. She had never entertained the possibility that she might actually die, yet now she was confronted by a vision of her own gruesome death...a death brought on by connivance and betrayal. It was ludicrous of course. The only thing that could engineer her death was the dagger of her turning and she had hidden that away, protected by a nearly invincible guardian. Not a soul knew of its whereabouts, but the vision was disconcerting nonetheless. As swiftly as it had come, the death scene faded away.

Elizabeth lay with one arm draped over her midsection and the other flung casually across the bed. Her breasts rose and fell in the slow hypnotic rhythm of sleep. Cynara watched her for a long time. She found her moment of triumph to be clouded by a nagging uncertainty. Could it be that this woman was destined to be Cynara's bane? Others may have fallen into that trap, but surely not her. Was she not the queen of seduction, temptation and manipulation? She glanced down upon the knife and saw that her knuckles had gone white from the pressure that she exerted upon the haft. She made up her mind in that instant. Striding to the bed, she bent over Elizabeth and, raising the dagger high above her head, brought it down in a vicious, precise arc. It pierced the rib cage, tearing into the heart with such force that it caused the beating organ to rupture. Blood spewed out of the wound, spattering Cynara in a crimson shower. Cynara's savage stroke had buried the dagger to the jeweled hilt. Elizabeth's eyes sprang open and she uttered a high, keening shriek. Her eyes found Cynara and beneath the pain was the inevitable question - why?

"Elizabeth, my love, soon you will come to understand. I have thrown open the gateway to eternal life. Soon we shall be together, forever," Cynara whispered soothingly. Elizabeth groped for Cynara's hand, found it and grasped it tightly, gradually losing its grip as the strength ebbed from her body. Despite her indifference towards death, Cynara found herself moved by the poignant and graceful way that Elizabeth had succumbed to her end. It cautioned her that she must take care in dealing with this woman.

Understanding the urgent need for speed, Cynara withdrew the dagger from the wound and laid it aside. There was no need for the chalice or the sanction from the Father, for this soul was to be hers and her body would be the vessel for the turning of the blood. She opened her mouth wide and clamped her lips over the gushing wound. Blood flowed over her tongue and down her throat. She continued to drink until she felt inebriated with the taste of her lover's life force. When she had ingested every last accessible drop, she sat back on her haunches. Her entire face and the tips of her hair were slick with thick crimson and her eyes were ablaze. Elizabeth's body had gone white as if her flesh were fashioned in dough. Cynara could feel her insides begin to boil and she smiled, knowing that the process had begun. She closed her eyes and let her head roll forward, until her chin touched her chest. The flame began to burn red and then orange and on through the color heat spectrum until her insides were alive with a blue, white inferno of boiling blood. She threw back her head, trying to contain the scalding liquid as long as possible; knowing that each second would mean heightened power for her charge. When the heat threatened to ignite her, Cynara bent forward and again clamped her lips to the wound and regurgitated the blood back into Elizabeth's body.

Cynara's body heaved and convulsed until every last drop of alien blood had been purged. She trembled, feeling dazed and drained then she collapsed onto the carpeted floor. Though she felt herself drifting, she became aware of movement above her. The room was alight with a soft, blue glow and then a huge roar shook the walls as if they were made of cardboard. A shape rose before her, dark and threatening. She tried to raise her head, but it began to swim and she was forced to let it fall back to the floor.

"Lover," a husky, melodious voice spoke and then the shape fell upon her. Elizabeth Simpson had been turned. From the sorry ashes of innocence there came a new dark Phoenix to assume its rightful place in the realm of the night.

Chapter Fourteen: Setting the Stage

1

A peel of thunder reverberated through the heavens like a colossus stomping angrily about the skies. Mrs. Miller shuddered uneasily, feeling vague fright as the storm gained ferocity with each passing minute. That last burst of thunder had seemed to possess an underlying human quality, as if God, or perhaps Satan, was howling with indignation.

Mrs. Miller had lived all of her fifty seven years in Semelar and never before had she witness such a wave of fear and unease as the one that now washed over her town. Just this very day, she had told her friend, Amy Morton, that it was getting so as it was not safe to go outside your own door and wasn't it awful what had happened to that nice Melissa Danford. What had happened to Danford had been horrible beyond words. She found it inconceivable that one human being could do such a thing to another. And the children that had disappeared, well she couldn't even think about that. Yes, Mrs. Miller was petrified and that fear had never been stronger than it was at this exact moment.

Everything in Semelar had always been so orderly, so nice and comfortably predictable. In the last two months, all of this had changed. Something was growing in Semelar, growing like a malignant tumor, robbing the town of everything that was good. People were changing. People that she had known all of their lives, now seemed reserved and in some cases, even hostile. Even Elizabeth, whom she had always adored, had grown reticent. Mrs. Miller prayed that they had finally gotten the killer, that the man now in custody was responsible for all of the killings. The fact that the police had the man behind bars should have served to ease her mind and allay some of her fears, but she could not shake the feeling that this storm was the harbinger of an imminent horror.

She nearly screamed when the chime clock in the living room struck two o'clock. As her heart calmed, she began to wonder what had happened to Elizabeth. She had left at five o'clock and was not back nine hours later. On a night as horrible as this, it was not hard to imagine that something terrible might have happened to her. When she had dropped off Nathaniel, Elizabeth appeared uncharacteristically distracted and remote. She had left Mrs. Miller with Doctor Simonovic's number and in the event that something was to happen, she was to call her there. At this late hour and with the disquieting notion that something had befallen Elizabeth nagging at her, Mrs. Miller decided that this would be the prudent thing to do. ' _It wouldn't hurt to check, would it_ ,' she thought.

She made her way to the kitchen and picked up the receiver of the black wall phone. As she was about to dial the Doctor's number, the kitchen became bathed in a harsh white light, punctuated by a sharp crash. The crashing sound came from beyond her window, somewhere in her backyard. Lightening was her first thought, but the tiny worm of dread gnawing at her bladder warned that this was more than just a random strike of lightening. Some instinct of preservation informed her that it might be wise to turn off the kitchen light and she did, submerging the room in dancing shadows. She crept soundlessly from the light switch over to the kitchen door. Squinting, Eva looked into her backyard and gave out an unsteady sigh of relief. A large tree branch lay on the back lawn and smoke could be seen curling from the trunk of the old maple. The heavy rain was quickly dousing the billowing smoke.

She laughed and was about to turn away from the window, chiding herself for her childish nonsense, when she saw two large golden circles floating in the night air near her back fence. This time she did cry out. Peering through the window, she saw a large, four legged shape advancing towards the house. At first she thought that it was a dog, but realized that it was much too large to be an ordinary dog. To her growing horror, the animal advanced until it stood at the foot of her porch. In the little light that the dull night provided, Eva could tell it was a wolf. It was a wolf unlike any that she had ever seen. This wolf had golden eyes. They radiated an odd, terrifying intelligence that transcended mere animal cunning.

The wolf paused at the foot of the steps and then slowly padded up to the door. Its eyes were trained directly upon hers. Something about its intense scrutiny suggested recognition. She knew that this was a crazy notion, but it didn't make it any less true. When it had reached the door, it sprang up on its hind legs and pressed its snout against the glass. It began to snarl, with saliva dripping in thick streams from its open mouth. Mrs. Miller backed away quickly, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. She scurried to the kitchen counter and drew a long handled butcher knife from the rack above the sink. Clutching the knife to her bosom, Mrs. Miller moved in the direction of the telephone. She picked up the receiver, intent on calling the police, only to find that the lines were down. She regarded the useless device bleakly and then slammed the receiver down into the cradle in a rare gesture of consternation. Looking back to the door, she saw that the wolf was gone. "Just hungry, probably strayed in from the woods."

Her words echoed in the silence, but they were no sooner out of her mouth when the kitchen door exploded in a hail of glass and wood. Eva wailed in terror as the shrapnel showered down around her. The wolf stood in the centre of her kitchen, regarding her with its malevolent golden eyes. A low, ominous growling issued from deep in its throat. Mrs. Miller pushed through her kitchen door and slammed it shut behind her. All of the interior doors were made of heavy oak and it seemed improbable that the beast would be able to ram its way through any of them. She was in close proximity to open panic now. The only thing that held it at bay was the thought of Nathaniel sleeping blissfully on the second floor. The beast threw itself against the door, slamming into it with its full weight. The sturdy frame shook and plaster fell from the walls around it, but it held. The beast charged the door three more times and with each successive impact, more plaster fell from the wall. Still the door showed no signs of breaking. In the kitchen, Eva heard the wolf begin to howl. The sound was fraught with anger and frustration, promising violence and agonizing death. Then the howling ceased and a tense hush descended upon the house.

Eva backed away from the door and retreated into the living room. She was praying that the beast had left, but feared that it was still lurking in the kitchen, hoping to lure her into the fatal error of peering in to see if it had gone. She had once seen a television program about wolves and knew that they were cunning, resourceful creatures. She was determined not to succumb to her curiosity and open the door. The question was; what could she do? She glanced at the front door and then padded over and looked out of the window. The street was deserted, save for the rivers of rain that ran along its asphalt surface. She thanked God that Nathaniel was safe, locked behind an oak door on the second floor.

She was intending to check on the boy when the bay window blew inward and a large form came to ground in the centre of her living room. Eva let out a piercing shriek, as tears of helplessness and fear begin to run down her cheeks. The wolf stood motionless, watching her with those disconcerting golden eyes. Eva extended the butcher knife before her and made a few half hearted thrusts in the wolf's direction. It didn't flinch, but instead began to snarl and advanced a few paces. The staring match drew itself out, but at last Eva's nerve shattered and she bolted for the door. It was a pathetic mismatch of speed really. The wolf launched itself into the air and clamped its bear trap jaws onto the wrist holding the knife. There was a muffled crunch, followed by a liquid tearing sound. Eva stood staring in disbelief at the stump where, only seconds ago there had been a hand. She staggered, holding her gushing wrist, and then collapsed to the floor. Blood jetted across the rug, turning it from a rich cream color to a grotesque, muddy crimson.

Eva lay writhing in agony as her body, whimpering for her plight and pain; whimpering for the helpless child that she had failed. The wolf paused for a moment and then pounced on the downed woman. It ripped and tore until the mass of flesh and bone was no longer recognizable as human.

2

Nathaniel lay sleeping in a tight ball, unaware of Eva Miller's horrific struggle. Nor did he awaken when a cold draft rushed through the room. A hand reached through the veil of sleep and shook him. A voice called to him through the fog. He recognized the voice and followed it up towards consciousness. As he came out of his slumber, he dug his tiny hands into his eyes to clear away the sands of sleep. When he at last could see, a warm smile broke across his face. He stood up on the bed and went willingly into her open arms. She enfolded his small body and carried him toward the window. Passing through it, she stepped out into the stormy night air.

3

David and Jimmy sat in the room's only two chairs while Neghev slept on the lumpy bed. The two said little, because in fact there was little to say. They were people from entirely different worlds, thrown together by a chain of circumstances that had torn their respective worlds apart. The three were like infantry soldiers, huddled together in some trench waiting for the powerful enemy to begin its final offensive. Each knew that there were no other outcome options but death or survival.

Jimmy sat with his head resting on the back of his chair. He desperately craved sleep, but understood that it was a luxury he couldn't afford. David Stillman was lost in his own world of despair and bitter regret. A stubborn part of his mind still refused to accept what was happening and sought cold comfort in the possibility that this was all a hellacious dream. As if struck by lightening, the boy suddenly went rigid in his chair. Stillman looked at him to see that a perplexed, wary expression had come onto his face. "Jimmy what's wrong?"

"Now there are two." the boy sighed in a flat monotone. His eyes seemed stony and distant. He glanced around the room as though he wasn't sure of where he was. He then glanced at Stillman, who could feel the hair rising on the nape of his neck. David crossed to the boy and began to shake him vigorously. "Jimmy, what the hell are you talking about?"

The boy's eyes tilted upward to meet Stillman's. They were wide with terror. "The blackness has thickened and now there are two."

He turned quickly to the door and Stillman followed his eyes, trying to see what the boy was seeing. In a voice as empty as a winter's grave, the boy admonished, "Something is coming. Can you feel it?"

David could feel it. The room had become as charged and turbulent as the night sky. Now the flesh on his back began to crawl. The boy was correct. Something was bearing down upon them. The crawl of his flesh warned that it would not be friendly. He pulled the boy close to him, hoping to shield him against the unseen threat. The bare light bulb in the room blew out like a candle. The floor below them shook as a low rumble rolled through the foundation. Neghev snapped awake and sat bolt upright. He looked questioningly at Stillman and the boy. Each wore an identical expression of fear and anxiety. Those expressions communicated the situation as well as any words ever could have. He was out of bed in the blink of an eye, ignoring the flaring pain in his side. "Both of you move away from the window."

Stillman guided Jimmy closer to a point near the back wall. The rumble continued to build and deepen until each could feel a bass vibration in the pits of their stomach. The window disintegrated into a thousand glass darts and flew inward at the same instant that the door was ripped from its hinges. Wind driven rain flooded through the openings, soaking the room and its occupants in seconds. Stillman watched in transfixed horror as the wind toppled his work table, sending his word processor tumbling to the floor, where it split open like an egg. Surprisingly, he didn't view this with more than a minor degree of alarm. He doubted that there would be a need for it much longer. His paper world of fantasy scattered to the wind. Stillman hoped that his world would not topple quite so easy. With the jumble of papers came the realization that all bridges had been irreparably destroyed. At once, the rumble abated and then died completely. The three stood together, waiting for the witch to show herself. Time crawled by and the only sounds to be heard were the beating of the rain and the apocalyptic howling of the wind.

Of course it was Jimmy who first noticed the imperceptible change in the nature of the storm, and as he squinted through the doorway, a thick blue fog took form in the parking lot and slowly, inexorably converged upon the building. Jimmy looked up at Neghev, who gave the boy a quick reassuring smile. Jimmy could detect no fear in the Israeli, but there was the presence of a strange emotion that he could not decipher. The fog rolled through the window and doorway until the entire room was submerged in an eerie blue haze. Stillman came to sense, more than see, that something had entered the room. The air had come to life with a carnival assortment of sounds. The three could hear things scuttling over the thread bare rug with bewildering speed.

The fog impaired the ability to properly judge direction or distance. The three could only stand in the blue haze and wait. A high pitched laugh sliced through the fog. David whirled in what he judged to be the direction of the laughter. Before he was able to react, a shape swooped out of the mist and drew razor talons across his face. He felt a searing pain and when he touched his fingers to his cheek, they came away sticky and wet.

Somewhere behind Neghev, a snarling pierced the blanket. He turned in that direction and squared himself for the attack. Some large form hit him full force in the chest and sent him reeling across the room. He hit the wall and fell to the floor, feeling his ribs issue a vehement, screaming protest.

Jimmy now stood alone in the center of the room. He was aware both Stillman and Neghev had been attacked and was no longer beside him. An icy calm descended upon him, giving him a clear grasp of the situation and telling him what had to be done. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the room, attempting to pinpoint the light sources. He was able to see a gray light and a yellow light and there, near the back of the room was a black void. He had found the witch. There were no other light sources in the room. His mind divined the intrinsic meaning of this and he cried, "It's all a show. There's no one here but us and her. She's just showing us picture tricks."

All of this struck Jimmy as uproariously funny and he broke into gales of hysterical laughter. A voice, malignant with fury, raved, "How dare you laugh, you impudent little bastard. I'll teach you respect."

Neghev applauded the boy's bravado. By forcing Cynara to speak, Jimmy had allowed Neghev to fix her position. He began to move slowly towards her voice.

' _Please Jimmy, please keep her distracted for a few seconds longer'_ he thought. For his part, Jimmy gathered his thoughts and hurled them at Cynara with all of the rancor and force that he could muster, hoping to catch her off guard as he had done once before. A single thought cannoned out of his mind, traveling with the velocity of a bullet; die. He waited for a reaction, but none came. There followed a disdainful laughter and Cynara snarled, "Never twice whelp. You caught me by surprise once, but never twice."

This last declaration allowed Neghev to home in upon Cynara. He ducked his head and charged blindly forward, trusting his instincts to guide him. He caught Cynara squarely, his shoulder connecting with her stomach, and drove her backwards.

The two crashed into the wall and went down heavily, with Neghev landing on top of Cynara. His tortured ribs issued another frenzied protest but he ignored them. Seizing Cynara's throat in a death grip with one hand, he began to throttle her with the other. He rained heavy blows upon her, one after the other, perhaps a dozen in all, but she made no sound, nor any effort to escape.

"Enough!" she exclaimed and threw Neghev off with an effortless flexing of muscle. He flew across the room and was fortunate enough to land on the ancient bed. He rolled and fell to the floor with a thud that left him breathless. Neghev's attack had distracted Cynara enough that she could no longer maintain her illusions. The blue light dissipated taking all of its inhabitants with it. Cynara was visible for all to see as she stalked over to where Neghev lay. All of the pretenses of civility were gone now as she loomed over the battered Neghev, her face twisted into a belligerent scowl. To Stillman, she looked like a panther on the hunt - beautiful and sensuous, but extremely deadly. He picked up one of the room's heavy wooden chairs and taking two quick steps forward, smashed the chair into the flat of Cynara's back. The chair splintered and shards of wood flew in every direction. Stillman stood back, expecting her to fall, but instead she whirled about and struck David with the back of her fist. He crumbled to the floor as she watched him topple with a satisfied smile. Then she turned to Jimmy, who stood paralyzed in the centre of the room. "Well it looks like you're the last defender of the faith, boy."

Neghev had managed to climb to his knees and he cried. "Run Jimmy."

"No, don't bother. This whole situation has gotten out of hand," Cynara said, apparently losing interest in further combat. Almost apologetically she added, "I do have a tendency to lose my temper."

She strolled about the room, looking around with an obvious moue of disgust. She shook her head regretfully, "I simply came here with the intention of presenting you with an invitation. It's time to reconcile our differences once and for all. It's time to bury the hatchet, so to speak. I'm a theatrical person and I've chosen an ideal setting for our final confrontation. I'm inviting you to meet me there." Cynara turned to Neghev and regarded him evenly. "I have no need to convince you to face me, Jew. You understand that there can be only one survivor. Perhaps Mr. Stillman, however, will need a little incentive."

Cynara walked slowly over to where David lay gingerly stroking his jaw. She knelt down beside the fallen writer and watched him thoughtfully. "Eva Miller is dead. She met a rather gruesome ending I suspect. I have Nathaniel and Elizabeth also. I want you Stillman. I have a personal vendetta to settle with you. I want to make my position eminently clear - run if you lack the fortitude to face me, but the boy will die and you will never see Elizabeth again. It really doesn't matter if you run or not because no matter where you go, it is inevitable that I will find you. You have a history of running away, don't you? If you run this time, the ones you claim to love and cherish will have to pay the price for your desertion. Just remember that, Stillman."

Cynara stood, leaving the last thought to hang between them. She surveyed the three and smiled. "Well gentlemen, there is my challenge. If you defeat me, then you may have your town and your mundane little lives back. Should you lose...well I'm sure that you're aware of the consequences of failure."

Neghev had risen to his feet and was making an admirable albeit unsuccessful attempt to conceal his pain. "If we come, I want your assurance that you will not harm the Simpson boy or Jimmy. I doubt that you have even a rudimentary understanding of the word honor and I know how many children you've slaughtered, but I want your word that you will let them go unscathed."

"It's all the same to me. If I want them, then I shall have them. Whether it is now or later makes little difference. Yes Neghev, I will give you my word," Cynara agreed, her tone conveying her indifference. Then Neghev did something that startled his allies and left Cynara openly disconcerted. He crossed the distance between the two with his left hand extended. Cynara tensed, expecting him to attack. "I'm warning you Neghev, don't provoke me."

Instead he took her right hand and shook it firmly. The gesture was incongruent, making the two look like two business people in the process of closing a big deal. "I give you my word that we will come and in turn, you promise to let the children go unharmed." He dropped his hand and stood back, regarding her solemnly. Confronted by such an incomprehensible gesture, Cynara could only stammer her agreement. "You...you have my word. I will go and allow you to prepare yourselves. If you have not come to my mansion within the hour, I will kill Nathaniel." Her jaw was set and her eyes were hard and unyielding, like bullets. Those eyes left no room for the comforting notion that she might be bluffing. With this, she turned and strode through the doorway into the bitter night, unmindful of the raging elements. The three watched her go wordlessly. The gauntlet had been laid down and now nothing remained but the waging of the final battle.

PART THREE: CYNARA'S DARK MASTERY

Chapter One: In the Den of the Witch Pt.2

The three hurried to David's Olds, the rain soaking them to the skin as they went. There had been no discussion as to whether or not they would go, only a tacit consensus that there was really no other alternative. David drove, with Neghev sitting beside him and Jimmy in the back seat. David drove across the tracks, out of the Lowlands, suddenly convinced that he would never see them again. This was not a particularly disagreeable notion. He had resigned himself to the confrontation with Simonovic, but he entertained little real hope of surviving the encounter. Cynara seemed virtually invincible and he doubted that they would find the chink in her amour: if one even existed. Still, he would face her and do his best. There was a certain degree of dignity and nobility in the notion. It was somehow romantic. He owed the effort to Elizabeth and Nathaniel. More than that, he owed it to himself.

"You have a history of running away, don't you?" she had chided. This was his one and final opportunity for absolution.

Neghev turned in his seat and Stillman noted the accompanying wince of pain. "How are your ribs?"

"They're aching like a rotten tooth," he replied with a frank and bitter grin. "How's the jaw?"

David took one hand off of the wheel and ran it along the tender flesh of his cheek. "About the same. That woman hits like Sonny Liston."

The three laughed, but the laughter died quickly. There seemed little room for levity in the face of what was awaiting them. David turned his face back to the roadway and asked, "What are we going to do, Neghev? Do you have any idea?"

He could sense the pair waiting for him to deliver the magic incantation which, in the world of fantasy, would always appear to save the beleaguered hero from sure disaster. He owed them candor. They deserved that much. "Not really. Cynara is holding all of the aces. We don't even know what the full extent of her power is. It's a very difficult task to defeat an unknown enemy. The best that we can do is to react to whatever she throws at us. In her case, that could be anything."

"That doesn't paint a particularly optimistic picture," Stillman observed dryly. Neghev had essentially confirmed what he already knew.

"No it doesn't, but we still have to try. Nothing is invulnerable. If we're lucky, maybe we'll stumble across some weak point by chance."

No one bothered to respond to Neghev's inspirational message. An air of pessimism had settled over the three. Stillman and Neghev had both been able to visualize their deaths with graphic and vivid clarity. Mercy was not a part of Cynara's stock in trade. If she killed them, it would not be gentle and it would not be quick.

"Jimmy, how did you know that those things in the fog were not real?" Neghev wondered.

"It's hard to explain. Everyone gives off a color. There were only three colors in the room and so I knew that there was no one else but her. Does that help?" Jimmy asked hopefully.

"I'm not sure," replied Neghev thoughtfully. "Her illusions were still able to inflict pain somehow." This notion was even more chilling than it would have been had her creatures been real. If she could marshal an army of mental pictures and turn them against anything that she wanted to, then she could defeat them by proxy. Neghev continued his speculation. "One advantage that Jimmy has given us is the ability to distinguish between a real threat and an illusion."

"Yes, and if we can close our minds to her illusions, they won't be able to harm us," Stillman added, displaying more enthusiasm at any time since this madness began. "Maybe a great deal of what Cynara does only works if we let it."

Neghev did not have the heart to point out that, even at the simple physical level, Cynara had the means to kill them without breaking a sweat.

They passed through the northern suburbs and out into the rural area. David noticed that some of the ditches were starting to overflow and if the rain persisted, the road would soon be washed out in spots.

"Most of the dirt roads are going to wash out if this rain doesn't stop soon," he said to no one in particular. Jimmy and Neghev made no comment, each lost in their own private contemplation of what might await them. The Simonovic mansion loomed up on the right and David slowed the car to a crawl. The gates had been left open in anticipation of the imminent arrival. The mansion looked brooding and sinister. Stillman could not recall it having cast such a menacing shadow the first time he had come here. To Jimmy those gates looked like gaping jaws, ready to devour the three of them. As they passed through them, Jimmy half expected them to snap shut, but they did not. Stillman cried out, "Look, it's Elizabeth's car. Christ, she really does have Elizabeth."

For some reason the thought 'now there are two' came back to Jimmy, but he chose to remain silent. Stillman pulled his car up to the Tercel, almost slamming into it in his agitation. The three sat silently for a moment. The rain sounded like nails being driven into a coffin as it pounded on the car's roof. Neghev turned to Jimmy. "Have you ever driven a car before?"

Jimmy did not follow Neghev's train of thought, but replied, "My dad used to let me drive his pickup truck when we were out on the back roads. Why?"

"Listen carefully. When you go inside, stay close to me and try to detect her presence if you can. If we can anticipate how she is going to come at us it may just help a bit. If she releases Nathaniel as promised, I want you to take him to Sheriff Mathis and stay with him until this is over. Stop for a policeman, but no one else," Neghev instructed. The boy was about to protest, but the controlled urgency in the man's voice and the iron set of his eyes told Jimmy that he would hear no argument.

"Neghev, what makes you think that Cynara has any intention of keeping her word?" Stillman demanded. "It's gullible to think that this bitch would be bound by honor."

"Simple arrogance, Stillman. She believes that she can kill any of us whenever she wishes. For now she wants you and I. When she has disposed of us, then she will deal with Jimmy and so it won't matter to her if it is now or later," Neghev replied, while studying the house intently. It seemed to have assumed a predatory posture, beckoning them forward.

"How do you want to go at it?"

"Why, through the front door of course," Neghev replied with a warrior's grin. He opened the door and got out into the rain. It felt cool and pleasant against his hot skin. The others followed his lead, walking in single file up the front stairs and to the door. It was slightly ajar and Neghev pushed it slowly inwards. He paused for a second and stepped into the foyer, gesturing for the others to stay where they were. He looked around the foyer and when he had satisfied himself that the way was clear, he signaled for Jimmy and Stillman to follow. A palpable air of tension weighed down upon them as the three cautiously made their way deeper into the witch's den.

They crept along the main hall, ready for anything but having no real idea what to expect. Stillman was visited by vivid memories of his first visit to the Simonovic mansion. Had only a week passed since then? He found that too incredible to believe. Surely it had been longer. Surely one's entire life, one's entire world couldn't be pulled down into ruins so quickly. Still, he knew that it had.

' _Only a week in terms of time, but like centuries in the time kept by the gut and the heart,'_ he realized grimly. As they made their way down the long hall the library doors sprang open, startling the three. Stillman could feel beads of perspiration coursing freely along his brow. He took a deep breath to steady his frayed nerves.

"We'll go through those doors. That's where she wants us to be," Neghev commanded and Stillman felt a brief flare of hatred for this strange man and his seemingly unflappable self assurance. Shame quickly replaced this and he followed the Israeli.

Dropping the effort to be covert, Neghev strode into the library. Stillman and Jimmy exchanged glances and then did the same. The man's glacial demeanor lent them strength. Mercifully they didn't understand the driving forces behind his fearlessness. Neghev walked to the center of the library and stood before a large Chevalier mirror that had been placed before Cynara's oak desk. He called to Jimmy without turning away from the mirror. There was a disconcertingly alien quality to his voice. "Do you feel anything Jimmy? Any trace of the witch or...or something else?"

Jimmy let down his mental filter and a whole array of confusing and disturbing images bombarded his psychic monitor. He began to tremble violently and Stillman put his arm around the boy's shoulder and pulled him close. "Jimmy, what do you see?"

He swiveled a wide eyed, dazed face to Stillman. It had gone the color of curdled milk. "She is here, but there are others, a whole lot of others. They, they are trapped here...she has a group of people, or they used to be people, trapped here. There souls are crying to get out...it's awful. I... I,"

He broke off with a strangled, inarticulate wail of grief and revulsion. David experienced a twinge of pity for the child who had been drawn into a gruesome battle that even the sturdiest of hearts would have been fortunate to survive.

"Stillman, Jimmy come and look at this!" Neghev exclaimed with more animation than he had ever previously displayed. His voice was alive with frank wonder. The two moved quickly to the Israeli's side. Both gasped at the spectacle which confronted them. The surface of the mirror near the border had turned black. That blackness was spreading inward, toward the centre of the reflective glass as if it were a viscous liquid. The analogy was a good one for the black substance shimmered like crude oil. Suddenly, astoundingly, Cynara was there on the opposite side of the mirror, hovering on the surface of the liquid.

She gave each a warm, broad smile of welcome, more suited to one greeting old friends. "So I see that you've decided to accept my invitation. Excellent! I assure you that, though it may prove fatal, you will find the evening's entertainment most stimulating."

Cynara winked at the three and then threw her head back and laughed in a most engaging manner, like a charming hostess at some gala ball. "The rules of the game will be quite simple. The two of you will battle me in the setting of my choice. The doorway to that setting is here before you. This mirror is the gateway to my world. You will step through it into a world of wonders. If you defeat me you will return automatically. Should you fail then you will die."

Though delivered in tones of mirth, her words were slivers of glacial ice, cold and merciless. David's mind was drawn back to his return to Semelar and his episode with the blood pool. He was visibly afraid despite his best intentions of displaying no outward signs of fear. This was a creature of pure, unrelenting evil. From her perspective of awful power, Cynara must see the trio as scurrying ants in the sand.

Neghev was speaking now. Stillman glanced at him briefly. He envied his fortitude and wished that he could be more like the Israeli. He seemed both fearless and undaunted. "Before we go anywhere, I want you to hand over the boy, just as you have promised."

"As you wish," Cynara replied, feigning vexation with his suggestion that she might renege on their agreement. She reached into the blackness, beyond the borders of the mirror and then pulled Nathaniel into view. Gripping him by the wrist, she held him aloft as easily as if he'd been a sack of feathers. He dangled in mid air, spinning slightly from side to side. His face was terror struck and teary eyed.

"You fucking bitch!" Stillman bellowed, indignant but privately grateful for the chance to feel something other than afraid. "Put him down now."

Cynara's fury blossomed to match his own and before Stillman was able to take evasive action, her hand flashed out of the glass and struck him across his injured cheek. The force of the blow buckled his knees and sent him stumbling into Neghev. "You'll learn to show me respect. I can promise you that."

Neghev stepped between Stillman and Cynara, hoping to diffuse her anger. "There will be time enough for that. Turn over the boy. You've given me your word."

Cynara kept her smoldering glare on Stillman, who refused to be intimidated. She tore open the boy's shirt and drew a long nail along his left breast, slicing deep into the flesh. The boy wailed in agony as smoke rose from the wound which seemed to be cauterizing itself. When she had finished branding the child, Cynara lowered him to the ground and propelled him roughly through the mirror and into Neghev's waiting arms.

Neghev released the boy and he ran to David, who swept him up into his arms. "It's alright Nathaniel. You'll be alright now. I'm going to get your mommy back now."

The boy lifted his head from David's chest and whispered forlornly, "Mommy's gone now."

David's heart sank. The despair in the child's eyes was immense, immeasurable. Elizabeth was dead. He looked to Cynara who regarded him with a taunting smirk. Then he hugged Nathaniel and put him down. "Nathaniel, this is Jimmy. He is going to take you somewhere safe, okay."

The boy was reluctant to leave a familiar face, but seemed to realize that there was no choice and he went to the older boy and took his hand. Neghev turned to Jimmy and said. "Go Jimmy and do exactly as you've been told."

Jimmy led the boy to the study door and paused. He looked back at the witch, knowing that fate would bring them together somewhere in the future. He spoke in a voice of the warrior, cold and hard like forged iron. "Something tells me that I'm going to be there when you die. I'm going to like that."

He turned and strode from the house, leaving the two men staring after him in open admiration. When they had gone, Stillman wheeled upon Cynara. "Why was it necessary to do that, to hurt the child? What possible pleasure could you derive from seeing him suffer?

It was Neghev who answered. "David, our hostess has quite a passion for senselessly killing children. She derives a great pleasure from preying upon defenseless victims. Death is her greatest form of amusement."

Cynara said nothing, merely glared. "Enough stalling. The time has come to put an end to this little drama. I've upheld my end of the bargain. Now it's time to reciprocate."

She stepped back and gestured them forward. There was a truly amazing three dimensional aspect to the mirror. Neghev looked at Stillman and shook his hand. "God protect you and thank you for your help."

Stillman nodded. Neghev then plunged into the mirror, disappearing out of sight. Stillman glanced about the library. The door called to him invitingly, but he took a deep breath and then followed Neghev into the unknown.

Chapter Two: Through the Looking Glass Pt. 1

1

He plunged through the mirror and then he was dropping, plummeting. Down? He could not say with any degree of certainty for in this new world nothing was beyond the realm of possibility. Though he plummeted with deadly speed, Neghev felt no fear. A part of his mind was fortified by the certainty that this was not how the witch wished for it to end. No, this was not the end, only a precursor to a world of hellish madness. It was Cynara's nature to dispense death at her own hand. Whether demon or human, he believed that it was nearly impossible to subjugate one's nature.

The pace of his drop accelerated until the very air around him began to vibrate and thrum. Neghev had the impression that he had tumbled into a vortex. Eventually the spinning became so rapid that he lost consciousness.

2

' _Heat...much too hot_ ', his mind whispered and it was this thought that lifted him out of his malaise. An extreme, brutal heat was beating down upon his face, leading the Israeli to rightly conclude that he was laying on his back and looking up into the sun. He opened his eyes and was at once stung by an intense yellow light. Tiny drops of salty sweat rolling from his brow, trickling into his sensitive eyes and stinging them shut. He rolled onto his stomach and drew the cuff of his denim shirt across his sweat soaked face. He blinked his eyes a few times and his vision finally cleared. Something stirred off to his left and he rolled away from it, coming to his feet in an instinctive defensive posture.

A tall beauty with hair the color of fire stood watching him. Her eyes were capricious and twinkled with mild amusement. Neghev relaxed slightly for this woman seemed harmless. He straightened and looked about for the first time. He found himself in something that was either a rain forest or a jungle. They were standing in a clearing of knee high grass, but all about them high, closely spaced trees created a canopy that almost obscured the sun. The floor of the jungle was ripe with lush vegetation. There were ferns that towered above the Israeli. Even the vines that stretched from tree to tree were as thick as his forearm. In other circumstances, this area would have been quite lovely. He turned back to the woman - wary of her, but still unafraid. "Who are you?"

"My name, if that matters, is Alexandria. I have been sent here by Cynara to prepare you for your confrontation," she responded. Her voice was soft and melodic. To listen to that voice could be likened to being bathed in warm ocean waters. Neghev could imagine how easy it would be to become beguiled by such a voice, not to mention her beauty. He redoubled his efforts to concentrate on the task at hand.

"So you are a creature like Cynara?" Neghev asked, finding it difficult to accept that the two had been cut from the same cloth.

"In a manner of speaking yes, though I am much older. Cynara is the most powerful demon of her ilk and perhaps the most savage. I will tell you that she is bereft of compassion or mercy. She is quite unique. In the centuries that I have existed, I have seen no other that may compare to her. As I have said, she is powerful. Perhaps too powerful," she added as a speculative glaze settled over her features. She was a wistful creature and Neghev could feel himself being strangely seduced by her. He wondered if this was a part of Cynara's plotting.

She seemed to have drifted into a reverie, but then said, "She has asked me to give you this."

She reached into the folds of her gown and drew out a handgun, similar to the one which he had purchased in Los Angeles, as well as four clips of ammunition. She studied the weapon and then handed it to the rather amazed Neghev. "Why is she allowing me to have this? It is of no value against her, I know that."

"It is of no value against Cynara, true, but there are other creatures here," she replied ominously. Neghev looked around again. Now, he could hear things stirring in the underbrush...things that he was certain had not been there only moments before. He looked up and Alexandria was holding a brush axe out to him, handle first. "This will assist you in moving through the tangled undergrowth."

Neghev took the axe and swung it experimentally. It was perfectly balanced. She stepped forward and let a small canvas bag drop at his feet. _'She's pulling these things out of the air like a magician pulls rabbits from a top hat,'_ Neghev marveled. "In this bag you will find an outfit of light cotton and a pair of standard issue combat boots. I think that you will find everything to be the correct size. There is one final thing that I have been instructed to do."

Neghev looked at her speculatively, again wondering how such an ethereal creature could have come to join the ranks of the likes of Cynara. They were as night was to day.

Alexandria glided forward and placed one hand upon Neghev's cheek and another upon his damaged ribs. He was about to pull away when he felt the onset of an electric pulsing sensation course through her hand and then into the flesh of his body. The electric current was accompanied by soothing warmth and he could actually feel the broken bones begin to knit. The islands of swollen flesh upon his face began to sink back into the general landscape. She was healing him. She was actually healing him! When the electric sensation ceased, he felt restored, renewed. Alexandria withdrew her hands and held one up to his face. Her palm was a silvery reflective surface upon which he could see that his face had been restored. It appeared as it had before his beating at the hands of the witch. Better yet, the debilitating pain in his chest was gone. Neghev turned his attention back to Cynara's mystifying emissary, suddenly wary.

"Why have you done this?" he repeated.

Her eyes were unfathomable, like impenetrable veils. "It is what I have been instructed to do. I suspect that Cynara has a grudging admiration for you. She has never done anything like this before. She desires to test your resolve... before she kills you of course. She wants you to be healthy so that you might provide her with a worthy challenge."

"So what am I to do now?"

"Simply go in whatever direction that you think is best. You must find her before she finds you." She then turned, evidently losing interest in the Israeli. He watched her with a mixture of confused emotions. _'Who was she?'_ he wondered. He could sense in her no evil. No consuming belligerence or inclination towards the darker aspects of human nature. There was something compelling, something magnetic about her. She was a walking enchantment and under the right circumstances, her mystique and deference could make her as formidable as Cynara. He had no time to contemplate the philosophical implications of evil. It was time for the fight of his life.

He wheeled in a full circle, trying to settle upon a direction. He concluded that it really didn't matter which way he went. There was a small gap in the foliage to his right and he decided to go that way. He moved to the edge of the clearing and then turned to Alexandria.

"Thank you," he called. He felt compelled to say more, to express his gratitude, but found that he lacked the proper means to give voice to what he was feeling.

She regarded him with her glistening eyes. Her face was set in a quizzical expression. Did he discern a ghost of compassion in those inscrutable emerald eyes? Neghev chose to think that he had. He raised his hand and waved farewell before turning and striking off into the jungle.

Alexandria stood watching him go, surprised to feel a touch of sympathy for the Jew. He was dead already. No human could stand against Cynara and hope to survive. Alexandria suddenly went rigid as the air around her congealed. Cynara was approaching. Alexandria could feel the weight of her awful presence. Alexandria despised Cynara, but understood the prudence of concealing her animosity. She was no match for Cynara's power or her vindictive, barbarian nature. She tried not to flinch as Cynara's warm hand fell upon her shoulder. "You've done well, Alexandria."

"Will you kill him quickly?" she asked, trying to disguise her odd sympathy for the man. Cynara, ever perceptive, noted the beauty's tone with a smile of contemptuous amusement. "Do I detect a certain amount of concern for the Jew, Alexandria? Perhaps you would like to fuck him before I deal with him. Being the whore that you are, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised."

Alexandria stiffened but held her tongue. She showed her contempt for Cynara by refusing to turn towards her. Suddenly furious, Cynara seized Alexandria's long red hair and curled it around her fists. Tugging back sharply, she pulled the other woman to the ground and drove a knee into her sternum.

"Don't ever...ever ignore me," Cynara snarled. Alexandria's eyes widened and the night queen could feel her body quiver beneath her. "Your little comment about me possibly being too powerful was noted Alexandria. Remember that."

Cynara released the Egyptian, who had once been the favored concubine of a mighty Pharaoh, and allowed her to get to her feet. Alexandria averted Cynara's eyes, desperately wanting to be dismissed, wanting to be away from this vile creature. Cynara leaned forward and kissed the other woman's high cheek bone. Then she waved her away. "Go harlot. I have a hunt to attend to."

3

It hadn't taken Neghev long to determine that he was out of his element. He was a man of hard blue skies and sand. Coming only a short distance, he had already been enervated by the oppressive heat and humidity. Moving through the thick underbrush had depleted him badly. If he continued much longer, his energy reserves would be exhausted. Moving through an alien terrain, in search of a demon who could be anywhere at any time was futile. His most effective strategy would be to allow her to come to him.

He cut his way through a few more yards of underbrush and there, almost as if it were a convenient answer to his own thoughts, was a clearing. At the opposite end of the clearing Neghev could see the land fall away into a sheer cliff. He crossed the clearing and confirmed his suspicions; the fall was indeed a bluff. At the base, a plain led down to a river which meandered slowly through the jungle. When he looked along the length of the bluff, he found that it ran from horizon to horizon. It was as if the world had convulsed and thrust itself towards the heavens. The face was oddly sheer, showing no discernible footholds. He could go no further and to back track would only hasten his total exhaustion. Providence had brought him to this place and here he would make his final stand. This was to be the site of his final apocalyptic struggle.

No sooner had this thought come to his mind than the previously dormant wind began to gust. Large black clouds took shape in the skies above him, spreading until they filled the heavens like a celestial oil spill. The sky had gone as black as coal, yet Neghev was still able to see clearly. All at once, two golden eyes opened, exposing Neghev to a harsh, blinding light. They filled the sky like two malignant suns. Neghev gaped at the spectacle, thoroughly bewildered by the immensity of the glowing orbs.

"Look in wonder Jew. Look at what you have presumed to challenge. Here, I am queen. I am the earth and the heavens themselves." As if in confirmation of this final grandiose pronouncement, the earth beneath Neghev's feet began to tremble and quake, causing him to stumble and nearly fall over the bluff. He scrambled away from the edge, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. Another violent convulsion wracked the land and he was thrown roughly onto his face.

"I am the giver and taker of life in this land," the heavens thundered. The Israeli looked up and cried out in revulsion. Mutilated bodies had begun to float out of the trees, moving slowly like suspended mannequins, hovering three feet off of the ground. Each body was horribly wasted, some being little more than moldering skeletons. Their eyes, however, were alive with agony and an unspoken plea for mercy - a plea that Neghev knew would never be answered. Their ranks grew, until all about him bodies filled the air. The pervasive stench of decaying flesh made it torture to breathe. "I have resurrected one even for you, Neghev."

Ten feet from were he lay the ground split open, spewing up grass and dirt in a bizarre geyser. With what appeared to be tremendous effort a hand thrust itself upward, desperately clawing its way towards the light. Neghev recoiled, instinctively knowing that he would not want to see what this evil earth was giving birth to. Slowly, inexorably it pushed its way towards the air and the light until at last, a dirt-covered figure stood before him. In short rapid motions, it brushed at itself and finally, after the dirt had effectively been brushed away, it raised its head towards the Israeli.

Neghev let out a strangled cry. Of course it was Delia. Older, more beautiful and less innocent to be sure, but unmistakably Delia. Her eyes were a striking green and her hair fell in long brown curls, tumbling over her shoulders. Part of him was not particularly surprised that Cynara had tried to use Delia against him. After all, she had done the same with Galina. Still another, perhaps more human part found Cynara's complete lack of morals and her seemingly limitless capacity for exploiting grief and misery deplorable beyond comprehension. This was not Delia. He realized that. That knowledge did little to alleviate the unspeakable grief and shame he was now feeling as he looked at the woman she might have been.

"It is Delia, Neghev," the heavens contradicted. "Look at the beauty that she has become. She pleases well I am told."

"Liar. You're a Goddamn liar," Neghev bellowed in spite of himself. A rumble of amused laughter filled the sky. The Delia creature watched Neghev through eyes that were impassive and unreadable. "There is no hiding from the truth, Jew. While you were out fighting your Holy war, she was searching for a meaning, a sense of belonging in her life. She cried out to you, but her cries fell on deaf ears. Ah, but there were those who heard her cries and came to provide a comfort of sorts. She was most appreciative, Neghev. Look at her. She is a creation of your neglect; one of hell's most skilful harlots."

"I saw her die," Neghev stammered. Then with more conviction, "I killed her."

"Yes, but her soul was ours long before your stupidity cost her life."

Neghev looked at his daughter, absently wiping at the tears brimming in his eyes. She took a tentative step towards him and Neghev thought that he could smell the fetid stink of her corruption. Anguish and belief threatened to overwhelm him and he un-holstered the hand gun, unsure of his intentions.

Delia regarded this with some alarm and cried, "It's alright daddy. I do forgive you. Come and I will show you just how I've learned to forgive you."

She unhooked a clip and the white robe fell away to reveal a flawless alabaster body. Neghev moaned at the sight of her upturned breasts with their delicate, floral pink nipples. She held her arms out to him in an irresistible gesture of welcome, of invitation. "Please daddy, I need you. I've missed you...I'm alone here."

She glided closer and closer, a triumphant smile touching her sensual lips. Anything but this, Neghev thought. He could bear anything but this. This confirmed his essential humanity in dramatic and painful terms. With a wail of immutable despair, Neghev raised the gun and fired three shots, literally blowing her head to pieces. The body tottered and then fell backwards into the hole. Through eyes distorted by tears, Neghev watched the ground mend itself effacing every trace of the abomination which it had bred. Neghev let the gun fall from his hands and collapsed helplessly to his knees. After a few moments, he looked up to find all of the floating corpses gone as was the black sky. Cynara stood at the opposite end of the clearing watching him speculatively. She stood with her hands on her flaring hips, shaking her head sadly. "You should have shot yourself Neghev. In the end it might have been the more compassionate thing to do. You did not and now hell has lost one of its great cocksuckers."

If Cynara had expected to incite some violent reaction from Neghev, then she was sadly disappointed. The Israeli said nothing and displayed no outward emotion. His encounter with Delia had extinguished his last spark of humanity. He was a machine now. There was little left save for the need to kill or be killed. If indeed he had driven Delia into the open arms of darkness through his neglect, then he was as much a monster as the abomination before him. He climbed to his feet, speaking in a dull, inflectionless tone. "I am beyond your words now. I am flawed and I shall be held accountable for my transgressions. I am human debris and you are an indictment against nature itself. Regardless of which of us should die, the world will only stand to benefit."

Cynara was perplexed by the enigmatic Israeli's reaction to her taunting and disquieted by her inability to divine his thoughts. Was he so resigned to the prospect of his own death? Possibly. It really didn't matter. His death was inevitable and she had no urgent need to understand the complexities of his mind. She snapped her fingers and a large raven swooped down out of the trees. In its talons, it held a small cloth bundle and this it dropped at the Israeli's feet. The bird then wheeled and ascended high into the sky before striking off into the western horizon. Neghev watched it go, strangely fascinated by its flight.

Neghev turned his glance upon the bird's cargo, feeling no particular compulsion to pick it up. A sort of calming numbness had come over him and he seemed to view everything in a languid slow motion. He stooped down and retrieved the package. Breaking the string, he unrolled the cloth to find an exquisitely honed dagger. He held the dagger in his right hand as he let the cloth fall to the ground. More trickery, more deception he thought. Still, it suited his hand like a weapon of vengeance. He looked to Cynara who merely nodded. "You are the most persistent and courageous adversary that I have ever faced. There is a certain amount of truth in Alexandria's declaration of my admiration for you. The knife which you now hold in your hand is the only means by which I may be destroyed by a human. It is the ritualistic dagger of my turning. I am granting you an opportunity that no man has ever had. I am giving you the chance to kill me."

Neghev searched Cynara's eyes for some sign of the lie, but they would not yield their secrets. It doesn't really matter if she is lying or not, my actions will be the same. He raised the knife before him, holding it forward and slightly down in the traditional knife fighter's pose. He reflected briefly on the course of his life that had led him to this particular moment. He had progressed beyond sorrow or profound regret and he no longer felt worthy of even these bitter emotions. He advanced towards the night queen.

Cynara grinned broadly and slanted off to her left in a boxer's crouch. Neghev could feel the tension of the fight building within him. Sweat began to run along his chest, back and groin in sticky rivers which alternately ran hot and cold. The distance between the pair closed slowly, until they were within arm's reach. Neghev moved the knife up and down, then side to side, in a slow rhythmic pattern, trying to lull Cynara into error. He fainted low and then brought the dagger up in a tight, savage arc, hoping to catch the witch in the throat. Just when it seemed that he would make good on his intention, Cynara vanished. The momentum of Neghev's swing nearly pulled him off of his feet, leaving him baffled and bewildered. Before he could digest what had happened, Cynara moved in behind him, smashing three successive hammer blows to his kidneys. Each punch fell like a mallet and Neghev was propelled onto his face. The pain was monstrous but Neghev had enough natural instinct to roll to his left and rise quickly to his feet. There was no levity in Cynara's dark eyes now, only the need to hurt and a dumb, unfeeling lust for blood. Her assault had jolted the knife out of his hands and Neghev realized the urgency of retrieving it. He darted towards it, but Cynara, having anticipated his move, was faster. She kicked it away with one foot and stomped on his reaching hand with the other.

There was a distinct, sickening crunch as the bones gave way beneath her boot. Neghev gasped, but pride refused to allow him the comfort of screaming. "You'll scream Jew," Cynara admonished gleefully. "Before I'm finished with you, you will scream until your lungs burst."

She ground her foot into his ruined hand and this time Neghev did cry out, bringing a smile to the witch's lips. She stepped back and the Israeli rolled away until he had come to cover the knife, which Cynara had evidently forgotten. She came at him slowly, relishing his agony the way a cat revels in a mouse's misery. Taking a firm hold on the dagger's blade, Neghev rolled over and threw the dagger at Cynara with all of the force that he could muster. Despite his impairment, Neghev's aim was true and the knife caught the baffled Cynara just above the left breast, burying itself to the jeweled hilt. To Neghev's infinite pleasure her eyes popped wide with shock and agony.

Crying out in pain, she reeled backwards in the direction of the bluff. Neghev pursued her, knowing that this was to be the final act in their ugly little play. He sprang to his feet and charged at Cynara. Without compunction he lashed out with his left foot and kicked her squarely in the groin. She emitted a strangled cry and bent forward, apparently doubled over by the pain. Neghev drove a knee into her face with bone crushing force.

To his unbelieving consternation she still refused to fall. "Goddamn you, die cunt! Just lie down and die."

Neghev screamed at her and his eyes bulged with a furious lunacy as he desperately prayed for it to be over. All around, howls and cries of outrage rose from the trees, but he paid them no heed. Cynara straightened, her face a mask of agony, but there was no blood or swelling from Neghev's fierce pounding. The dagger still protruded from her breast, but no blood flowed from that wound either. _'Perhaps demons don't bleed,'_ Neghev's mind interjected absently. He judged that it was only ten more feet to the precipice and he knew what he had to do. He lowered his shoulder and charged like a middle linebacker, carrying her backwards and out into the void.

As they began to plummet Neghev realized that he had been cheated. He took some solace in the fact that it would be the final time that he would be so used.

As they fell, Cynara's body went through a rapid transformation. One moment she was a woman and the next she was a clawing, screaming bird. It ripped it's talons across Neghev's face and then soared upward, leaving the beaten Israeli to fall alone. He hit the ground with a muffled thud. That sound convinced him that the fall would be fatal even before his body registered the fact.

The raven circled overhead, calling out as it did. To Neghev's tortured mind that call sounded painfully close to derisive laughter.

Neghev lay in a heap on a mound of loose earth. Blood ran freely from his mouth, his ears and nose. It ran with a speed that might have been terrifying had Neghev not known that he was surely about to die. It ran into the sand beneath his ruined body and spread about him in a crimson pool.

Neghev felt no great remorse over his imminent death, only a regret at his failure to achieve his purpose. The sky above him was huge, blue and beckoning. He would be going home soon. He tried to move but his ruined body would not respond. His limbs were numb and he knew that his back had been broken. The only pain he felt was the constant, dull pounding in his fractured skull.

A shadow fell across him and he shifted his eyes upward. Cynara stared down at him. A smile played at her lips, but her eyes were cold and dead, bereft of mercy or compassion. She looked down into his ice blue eyes, expecting to see pain and fear. There was pain, yes. Mostly, however, there was only a glazed expression of blind acceptance.

"So the Lion of Zion has been humbled," she sneered mockingly. "Where is your God, Jew? Why has he not come to save you? I think that you've been abandoned." This thought amused her and she laughed richly.

He tried to speak but blood flowed into his throat, making him gag. The pain made him wince, but still he refused to give it a voice. "I'm beyond you," he managed at last. "You are a cancer and I am a poor surgeon. I have failed, but there will be others much more proficient than I. They will stake you in the sun like the leech that you are."

"Bastard Jew." she spat, kicking him in the ribs. There was a sharp snap as yet another rib broke. Thick blood poured from his mouth in a torrent.

"I truly pity you," he whispered. "You are an empty vessel and when you are finally destroyed, you will disappear as if you had never been. You'll have loved nothing, created nothing and left no mark other than the vile stain of infamy. You are just a black void that someday will be filled with light."

Despite her outrage, Cynara was profoundly shaken by the Jew's irrepressible dignity. She had never met a man such as this. He lay on the verge of death, but showed no sign of regret or fear. This was something beyond her sensibility and it filled her with a vague nameless dread. "I could heal you Neghev. If you were willing to accept me as your master, to serve me, then I could heal you."

He smiled. "You have no power over me. My fate has long since been determined. You are merely its pawn... nothing more."

"I will see you burn in the fires of hell. I will redefine the limits of agony for you," she raged.

"I am beaten, but not broken. You don't have the fortitude to ever do that. Your threat of hell and pain frankly amuses me. I have lived in a world of hell and pain worse than anything your miscreant's mind could ever conjure. I consigned my own soul to that wicked place. Whatever hell you could offer would seem like heaven by comparison." He grinned at her and in that grin she saw the indomitable nature of the race for which she had so much contempt and scorn. "Do your worst, demon. I accept your judgment willingly. As for your offer of healing..."

Neghev raised his head. It required every last ounce of will in his faltering being. She knelt forward, expecting his surrender. He spat a huge glut of blood into her face. Smiling, he laid back his head and died.

Her fury soared beyond her ability to control it. She pounced upon him and beat at his face. She pounded away with both hands until his skin and bones had been mashed to a bloody pulp.

"Stop!" The single word had come from somewhere behind her. Its tone conveyed an unquestionable authority that stopped the rising and falling of her fists. She rose and swiveled to confront the speaker, with every intention of venting her rage upon the interloper. Her eyes fell upon him and her rage drained away like polluted water through a sewer grate. Fear rushed in to fill the void. The emotion was new to her and it debilitated her. She stood stone still, unable to will herself to move.

"You...you have no place here," she stammered, trying to subjugate her fear, but only partially succeeding.

The man stood at the opposite end of the clearing. He did not appear to be the kind of man who would inspire fear. He was tall and rather thin. His arms and legs were sheathed with long, sinewy muscles. His hair was golden and curly as if it had been spun on a loom. His face was artistically beautiful, comprised of thin, perfectly proportioned features. Yet it was his eyes that drew one's gaze. They were blue, but seemingly overlaid by a mild golden glow. They were hypnotic and compelling. Not in the sultry way that Cynara's eyes riveted her observer. His eyes seemed to possess a limitless capacity for innocence and compassion. Even the way in which he held himself spoke of serenity and wisdom. He stood on the edge of the river watching both Cynara and Neghev impassively.

"You have no place here," Cynara screamed. The scream was an uncharacteristic petulant whine. She appeared as if she were on the verge of throwing a child's tantrum. "How long have you been here?"

"I have always been here Cynara."

"What do you mean," she demanded impatiently.

"I have shadowed you since the earliest days of your existence. I have maintained a detailed account of the horror and suffering that you have visited upon the world."

Nonplussed, the demon shook her head and extended her hands in a warding off gesture. Surely this was a lie. How could she have failed to detect such a presence all of these years? Even as she thought this, she knew implicitly that he had spoken no lie. Cynara, the demon spawn, stood before an angel of God. He stood beyond the reach of corruption.

"What do you want? You are sworn not to interfere."

"I have come to escort the soul of this man to its rightful place in the kingdom of God," he replied. His tone of finality told her that he would yield to no obstruction.

"No!" Cynara bellowed, feeling anger for the first time since he had come forth. "His soul is mine. I have earned the right to claim it."

This prompted the angel to display some emotion. It came in the form of a sad, pitying smile. The expression caused Cynara to grimace. So many unseen factors. Was she to be denied with her moment of triumph so close at hand? When again he spoke, she could detect a slight hint of amusement in his voice. "You may lay no claim to a soul unless you have managed to corrupt it. With this man, a creature of your ilk would stand no chance. He was the personification of all of the things that your kind cannot or will not see."

He turned his eyes to the fallen form of Neghev, who lay motionless in a pool of his own blood. His face resolved itself into an expression of regret and his eyes shone with a tender light. Cynara's own face curled into lines of disgust. She abhorred everything that this creature represented - all of the things that she had never been capable of expressing, of feeling.

"He was a murderer and a butcher. He merits no attention from you. His actions have consigned him to my hands," she retorted. Since the earliest days of her rebirth, she had been admonished against confronting an angel. Their power was said to be absolute and incorruptible. In the deepest recesses of her mind, she had never really accepted this. Over the decades since, she had consolidated and then expanded her powers until she was one of the most powerful minions of the Dark Master. Her heart soared in jubilation at the thought of the acclaim that she would win for herself should she defeat an Angel. No request, no remuneration would be unreasonable. With supreme confidence she declared, "And I mean to have him."

She slowly moved towards the angel, gathering herself, preparing to strike with more fury than she had ever before unleashed. The angel remained stationary, but when she had come to within fifteen feet, he raised his left hand, with the palm extended outward and admonished, "Come no closer miscreant."

Though the angel had not raised his voice, his words still carried an emphatic weight that gave Cynara pause. However, the urging of ego and the call of ambition overwhelmed her and she charged the angel. His only reaction was a slight widening of his eyes. Twin beams of golden light shot from his ebony pupils, singing the air as they went. A burnt smell, thick and acrid, reached Cynara's nostrils. With a high pitched whine the beams caught Cynara squarely in the midsection. She uttered a keening wail of agony as she was thrown backwards into the wall of the bluff from which Neghev had fallen only moments before. Sliding along the smooth, damp stone, she came to rest face down, only six feet from where the Israeli lay. She attempted to rise, but the immensity of her pain dwarfed her, riveting her to the ground. A thick black liquid, much like blood yet darker, oozed from above her hairline. It ran into her eyes, stinging them and robbing her of her vision. Her mind was horrified by the low whimpering sounds that she was making. Any notions of defeating this angel were gone, replaced by the bitter taste of disillusionment and the inherent desire to survive. It had been brought home to her, with painful finality, that she was not invulnerable.

She gathered herself against the thundering pain and lifted her head. The woman, who had made beauty her deadliest ally, was now reduced to a shambles. Her face was bloody and dirt stained. Her hair, which she took great pains to keep meticulously styled, was a tangle of leaves and dirt. The angel was advancing towards her. She cringed and raised her arms to shield herself from the death blow that she felt was about to follow. She waited, trembling on her knees, but it did not come. Incredulous, she looked up to see the angel kneeling beside Neghev. He looked down upon the broken man with compassion and love. Again with a touch of sorrow, he whispered. "He was as noble as this imperfect, dirty world would allow him to be."

"How can you love him? He is a murderer. A denial of everything that your God symbolizes," she demanded, climbing cautiously to her feet. He turned his head. "He is a man and nothing more. He has traveled along an extremely difficult road, one of pain and suffering, but he has maintained a sense of spirit, of righteousness. He has suffered losses that would have robbed lesser men of all compassion, sensitivity and concern for their fellow man. Despite this, he has never surrendered his virtues. When he learned of your treachery, he came across half of a world to make amends...not only for your evils but for his own. There are several indictments against his soul, but his virtues far outweigh his sins. His belief in goodness and the need for justice never flagged. The blessed Lord has said: _He, who believeth in me, though he is dead, yet shall he live and he who liveth and believeth in me shall never die._ This man is a testimonial to that promise and the kingdom of Heaven shall be his."

The angel smiled his gentle smile over Neghev and Cynara experienced a wave of envy so profound that it made her wince. She had never been the recipient of such a look of pure, unadulterated love. She felt an overwhelming sense of despair and loss. Confused and shaken, she asked, "Why did you not kill me?"

"It is not my place. I am sworn not to interfere in the affairs of man and in accordance with that ancient pact; I am not allowed to interfere with the machinations of the devil spawn. Each man must choose his own path and confront the temptations of the shadow children as best he can, equipped only with faith in God and whatever strength that this might invest in him. I may take action only if you attempt to stop me from completing my appointed duty."

Cynara's pain and the implications of the lessons that she had learned staggered her imagination. She knew that any provocation would bring about her destruction, but it was alien to concede defeat. Still, she saw no alternative.

"So what now, Angel?" She asked, spitting the last word out with as much venom as she dared risk.

"You must decide what is to follow. You may further attempt to hinder me or you may go on your way," he paused and fixed Cynara with a wilting glance that froze her heart. "Personally I would be delighted if you chose to pursue this conflict. I would take great pleasure in destroying you and removing your vile, putrefying presence from the face of this world. You have defiled everything that you have come across. As this warrior has said, someday you will be called to atone for these transgressions. When judgment has been passed, I pray that I will be the one to dispense justice to you. You must decide; shall we resolve this conflict now or will you go your own way?"

The silence was huge. Cynara could feel her massive ego imploring her to the attack. For the first time since before the death of her reviled brother, Cynara succeeded in subjugating the maddening urge to lash out. "I will go, but I vow that someday you and I will meet again. Then you will pay for what you've done today; a million times over."

"Go witch. Go before your presence offends me to the point where I am forced to break my oath and obliterate your foul existence," the angel countered, waving a gesture of dismissal. Cynara scowled and then turned and walked into the tree line. When she was certain that she was out of sight, the demon began to run.

Once the despoiler had fled, the angel bent down and lifted Neghev into his arms. He passed the palm of his right hand over Neghev's demolished face. The bones knit themselves and the skin regenerated over them. When the reconstruction was complete, Neghev had been restored to his original condition, minus the scars that he had accumulated over the years. Neghev opened his eyes and looked into the face of radiance and awesome beauty. The angel smiled. "I have come to take you home."

Tears of joy and gratitude flooded Neghev's eyes.

"Thank you," he whispered, genuinely content for the first time in his life. Then he closed his eyes for the final time.

Chapter Three: The Flood

1

Once Jimmy had led Nathaniel out of the library, he had looked back one final time. His internal companion told him that he would never see the two men again. This day would belong to the witch. The outcome of this battle was predetermined and she was dealing from a stacked deck. He wanted to tell them this but knew that it would make no difference. They would do what they felt they must and so would he. He ran along the hall, dragging the smaller boy behind him, and then out the front door.

The storm had taken on significant overtones that frightened Jimmy. Rain pounded the asphalt with a vengeance and thunder rumbled through the heavens like celestial artillery shells. Jimmy wondered why, if there was indeed a God, he would tolerate the continued existence of a creature like Cynara. He could produce no plausible explanation and wasted no further time pondering the colossal injustice which had laid his life to ruins. He went to move down the steps, but the other boy tugged on his arm, reluctant to go. Jimmy turned impatiently to the child. "What's wrong? We have to go. If we stay, she'll get us."

Nathaniel looked back towards the door. His mouth was working soundlessly and his eyes were brimming with tears. "My mommy is still in there. I want her to come with us."

Jimmy swallowed hard, ashamed of his callousness. He had been so locked in his own private world of pain that he had failed to notice the misery of others. He knelt on the wet stone step and placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Nathaniel, I'd like to bring your mommy with us, but I can't. I'm...just a kid."

He cursed his age and felt his own control waver. "Those men are going to try to bring your mommy back. You and I have to find a safe place to wait for them, okay?"

Nathaniel made a low moaning sound in the back of his throat, but nodded his agreement. Jimmy stood and taking Nath's hand, led him out into the rain. They dashed to Stillman's car and climbed inside. Jimmy took the key from his pants pocket and inserted it into the ignition. He looked down and was relieved to see that there were only two pedals.

"Jimmy look!" Nath bellowed into his ear, nearly scaring him out of his wits. He looked up and let out a small, horrified whimper. A large wolf had loomed out of the shadows and was advancing towards them. Its eyes were the glowing red of burning embers in the darkness, and its ears were laid back along its skull. He looked about to see that there were other smaller wolves emerging from the shadows, surrounding the car in an ever closing circle. Nathaniel had begun to cry and Jimmy waved for him to stop, feeling very close to tears himself.

He depressed the gas pedal and turned the key. The engine coughed twice and then died. Jimmy glanced up in time to see a large wolf launch itself at the side of the car. It hit the door with a thud, shaking the whole car with the impact and cracking the glass.

Jimmy pushed Nath off of the seat. "Get down on the floor and stay there."

The wolves were launching themselves at the car like hellish missiles and when a particularly large one hit the front wind shield it left a spider web of cracks. Jimmy was perceptive enough to realize that a few more hits like the last one would shatter the glass into a thousand pieces. The wolves seemed to understand this as well for they intensified their assault on the vehicle. Jimmy turned the key and remembered his dad saying, "Jimmy if the car won't start, don't hold the pedal to the floor or you'll flood the whore. Try pumping the pedal a few times. If you do, chances are she'll go."

He closed his eyes and pumped the gas pedal, turning the key at the same time. The engine roared into life. Jimmy disengaged the transmission and shifted it into drive. The car shot forward in a squeal of tires and struck a wolf in mid leap. It somersaulted through the air and landed in a quivering heap. Jimmy let out a triumphant howl and headed for the front gate. The car shot through the front gate and very nearly into the ditch on the opposite side of the road. He slammed down on the brakes and whacked his head on the steering wheel. An egg sized welt began to grow on his forehead, but he still managed to reverse the car and steer it back onto the roadway. Then he headed haltingly in the direction of town, with the wolves of hell in hot pursuit.

2

Ken Darby maneuvered his Ford Ranger along the water logged length of County Road Two as quickly as he dared under the horrendous conditions. He was heading towards the Witly River dam, which was located three miles south of the town. The road conditions both in the country and back in town did not bode well for the hopelessly incondign town drainage system and he pushed his speed up another five miles per hour. His leg itched to depress the accelerator even more, but his mind argued against the imprudence of going any faster in the near zero visibility storm.

Ken was the supervisor of the County Water Works Department and he had grown increasingly agitated by the excessive amount of water that had fallen in the last week; excessive even for the state of Washington. He had kept all of his maintenance crews on a twenty four hour standby. They had been unable to alleviate the water flow problems and now water was backing up through the catch basin grates and flooding the city streets. It was seasons such as this that made Ken's job a nightmare. His telephone had not stopped ringing for the last three days, causing him to wear a perpetual harried frown.

Tonight, however, tonight had been the worst. At about two o'clock, he had awoken from a graphic nightmare, convinced that the Witly dam was about to blow a gasket. It's only a dream, his wife had tried to assure him, but every passing moment that the storm continued to rage convinced him that the dream was some kind of precognition. Something about the slow, vivid image of spewing concrete and water made it impossible for him to dismiss his nightmare. Over her fevered protests, he dressed quickly and raced to his truck. Now he was here. The water level in the deep ditches, which bordered both sides of the roadway, had risen to within inches of the shoulder of the roadway and showed no sign of relenting.

The road ran parallel to the Witly and upon first sight of it Darby cried out. The river was angry and pregnant with black, raging water. And it was rising.

' _God rising so quickly_ ,' he shivered. He pulled his truck to the gate that barred the way to the main dam buildings. Jumping out of his Ranger, he unlocked the gate. He could hear the furious roar of the water as it pounded against the dam; a brilliant flash of lightening cast a spectral light over the river. Darby was unaware that he had begun to whimper. The spectacle of the swollen waters turned his backbone to jelly. The water had risen to within eight feet of the top of the dam. A tiny voice whispered to him. It was calm and perfectly logical. "Open the dam. It must be opened or the dam will burst."

The thought was startling, but when he gave it a little more consideration, he realized that it was the only expedient thing to do. The dam was less than twenty years old and had been inspected regularly. The notion that it could actually burst was ridiculous. Ludicrous really. He gazed up into the night sky. Water seemed to be falling from the heavens in solid sheets. The whispering persisted. "The dam will burst. It must be opened."

There seemed to be desperation beneath that calm now; desperation that bordered on panic. The urging was emphatic and it spurred him on. He ran out to the platform and squinted into the liquid darkness. His heart was thudding painfully in his throat as he scanned the face of the dam. Once, nothing. Twice, again nothing. On the third pass he saw a network of cracks. They were centered about five feet from the top of the dam on the opposite side of the river. They were spreading before his very eyes. In the darkness, he thought that he could see the metallic wink of a steel reinforcement rod. The voices had been right. The dam was on the verge of blowing apart. The urgency of the situation would afford him no time to think. Panting heavily, he ran to the station house. Coming to the door, he saw that he would never be able to get in. The entrance door was heavy steel, protected by a thick meshed screen door. He had no key and there was no way to get through. To call the utility company would take as much as forty minutes. By the time they arrived, the dam would have self destructed. He looked about desperately, hoping that some miracle solution would present itself. He ran up the slope, nearly falling on his ass twice, and jumped into his vehicle. Gunning the engine, he rumbled down the hill, directly into the double steel doors. There was a huge scream of metal as the doors were thrown inwards. Darby was catapulted forward, smashing his forehead on the windshield. Ignoring the pain and the blood which poured copiously down his face, Darby sprinted to the control console. He studied the panel for a moment and then threw the appropriate levers. Warning klaxons screamed into life as the dam began to open.

Darby ran back to the observation platform just in time to see the dam open, letting a torrent of water spill through. He smiled, ecstatic that he had averted a catastrophe, and headed back to the office.

3

Avery Mathis sat at his desk, absently staring out of his window into the alleyway that ran along the rear of the building. Tension was gnawing at his insides. His tormented guts were burning as if he had swallowed undiluted acid. He held an ice pack to his swollen jaw as he listened to the hostile sounds of the wild night. About him, Mathis could feel events approaching a fatalistic climax. He had thrown his career away tonight. Tomorrow the questions would start. Why had he been transferring Neghev alone? How had Neghev managed to escape? Of course he would have no answers and it was almost certain that the council would demand his resignation and he would give it to them. Should they be furious enough to dig deep, it was not unthinkable to believe that they would charge him with aiding and abetting Neghev's escape.

There was really nothing more to be done. His one prayer would be that Neghev could move against Simonovic and still have time to escape. Mathis was human and not immune to the bitter pangs of self pity. How could his world have collapsed so quickly, so utterly? He was reflecting on the dismal prospects for his future, when a shattering of glass brought him to his feet.

He ran to the front of the station to discover that the entire glass entranceway had been demolished by a runaway Delta 88. He was astounded to discover that the car was being driven by a small boy, who he at once recognized to be Jimmy Simms. Jimmy opened the door and gingerly made his way through the glass. He wore a sheepish grin which conveyed his embarrassment over his dismal parking effort. The night dispatcher vocalized Mathis' sentiments perfectly. "Holy fuck, what a mess!"

Jimmy surveyed the carnage that his collision had caused. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Geez, I'm sorry. I still have a bit of a problem reaching the pedals."

Mathis smiled. It was the first time that he had managed a genuine smile in weeks and it felt good. His smile rapidly faded when he noticed Nathaniel climbing out of the car. "Is that Liz Simpson's boy?"

Jimmy nodded that it was and Mathis gestured him into the office, instructing the night dispatcher to watch Nathaniel. When the two were alone, Mathis asked, "Alright Jimmy, what the hell is going on?"

"David and the other man went to meet the witch. They're going to try to kill her. I don't think they will though," he concluded grimly.

"When?" Mathis was accosted by a twinge of guilt. He should have been there with them. This was, after all, his town.

"Not long ago. They had me drive here to you after I got the boy. We couldn't find his mother and I don't think that we will."

' _This kid's a real optimist_ ,' Mathis thought, but before he could speak another word, the muffled roar of a huge explosion filled the air.

'Good Christ, what now?' he thought miserably. The dispatcher burst through the door, shouting frantically. "The Witly dam has burst. I just got a call to saying that the entire Lowlands just went up in flames."

Mathis and Jimmy exchanged identical grimaces of horror, each knowing that Cynara stood behind the escalating chaos. The dispatcher caught that exchange of understanding and frowned. Hell had cracked the crust of the earth and was now spilling out onto the face of the world.

4

What happened that night in Semelar is not clear and perhaps never will be. Why it happened is veiled behind an even thicker shroud of mystery and confusion. If one were to try to make a sequential analysis of what might have happened, it would possibly go like this: When Darby opened the dam a deluge of water rocketed along the Witly like a juggernaut, destroying everything in its path. When the flood reached the town of Semelar, it carried an amount of water all out of proportion with its size. Surviving witnesses (and there were only a handful) claimed that the water wall would be best described as a tidal wave.

It destroyed small buildings and washed away vehicles as if they were sand castles and children's toys. Most cataclysmic of all was its destruction of several large oil storage tanks. These tanks were toppled upon impact, sending large quantities of fuel oil spilling into the storm and sanitary sewer systems. It is impossible to ascertain what served as the catalyst for the subsequent explosions, but within minutes the entire waterfront was alive with sound and fire. It is not inconceivable that sparking hydro wires ignited the oil, but it would be speculation. Hundreds died, mercifully in their sleep, while others were less fortunate. The fire spread quickly, ravenously consuming block after block of tenement buildings and apartment houses. Advancing relentlessly against the meager forces that had been assembled to control it, the flames gobbled up wood that had been saturated with water as if it were bone dry.

Did this relate to what was happening only miles to the north? There is no way of knowing, but is it not odd that, at the moment the flames began to spread the torrential rains stopped and a gale force wind began to blow.

Chpater Four: Through the Looking Glass Pt. 2

1

He had been wandering for days or so it had seemed. He had no scale against which to measure the passage of time. There was an unrelenting, maddening sameness here that was both overwhelming and oddly bewitching. It numbed the senses and made conscious thought redundant. Stillman crested the rise and surveyed the plain before him. The sky from horizon to horizon was uniformly gray as was the sand and rock beneath his feet. There had been no change since the first moment that he had arrived. He had spent his first waking period searching fruitlessly for Neghev. He came to realize that he would not find Neghev. He was alone in a world of excruciating monotony and solitude.

David could feel hunger working on him, but even that was not as bad as body killing thirst. His throat was parched and he could sense extreme dehydration lurking in the not too distant future. Scanning the horizons, he could see no sign of water, only miles of barren nothingness. Exhaustion worked its will upon his legs and he collapsed to the sand. Clouds of lifeless dust puffed up around him as he hit the ground. Stillman hung his head. Despair compounded David's weariness. He was tempted to simply lie down and surrender himself to the shifting sands. Just where was he and why did Cynara not show herself? Even if she did appear out of the dust, he was pragmatic enough to know that he could do little but try to die with dignity.

Unexpectedly, he began to weep. It was a bitter sound, fraught with despair and a squandered wealth of years. He lowered his head to the dirt and let it rest there. He had to gather himself, had to try and reason his way out of this nightmare.

As he lay there, the wind carried a tiny tinkling quality to his ears. The sound had the haunting, forlorn sound of a wind chime. He quickly sat back on his haunches and gazed about. His tears had cut tracks over his dirt stained face. In the distance he could see the tail end of a line of people disappearing over the crest of a dune. They were dressed in black and looked to be arranged in a rough column. He stood and cried out to them, but the wind was against him and he knew that they could never hear him from this distance. The sight of other people rejuvenated him and he began to run towards the hill over which they had just disappeared.

"God please wait," he whispered. It never occurred to him that perhaps these people might be hostile, so desperate was he to see another human being.

The sand in the gully between the dunes was ankle deep and it impeded his progress, but eventually he reached the top of the hill. He took a deep, rattling breath, drinking in the incredible panorama that had been revealed to him. He was gazing down into a vast bowl shaped valley that was filled with hundreds of people. All were dressed in black flowing robes with hoods, which were drawn up to conceal their features. A series of x shaped crosses ringed the lip of the valley like fatalistic sentinels. The centre of each cross had been pierced by a three foot spike. Even from this distance, Stillman could see that the spikes had been honed to a sharp and deadly point. It occurred to him that he had stumbled onto some sort of large scale killing grounds - a Golgotha.

' _You haven't stumbled upon anything. This is precisely where she wanted you to be._ ' his weary mind amended. He was wracked by indecision; should he stay or should he run. As he contemplated the vast spaces about, he abandoned the notion of trying to flee. To go back into the wastelands was to go back into madness and death. David Stillman began to descend along the slope into the valley.

2

Cynara sat in her leather wingback, trying to subdue the raging storm in her wicked soul. She had very nearly shattered the mirror in blind fury after she had returned. Had she done this, Elizabeth Simpson would have been lost to her...trapped in David Stillman's dream world for eternity. She turned her mind away from this terrifying prospect. She had spent decades searching for Elizabeth and she had nearly exiled her in some nether world and all because she had lost her temper. She had been cheated and had been forced to suffer the foul and lingering taste of humiliation.

"He had no right to intercede," she flared to the darkness of her study. She slammed her hand down on the arm of her chair and exhaled sharply, trying to put a rein on her emotions.

Her nostrils flared as a thick sulfurous smell filled the library. In the next moment the floor beneath her disappeared and she was plunging through the darkness, spinning like a top gone mad. She cried out, unable to grasp what was happening. Her descent began to slow, until she floated downwards like a feather on a gentle updraft. She came to rest on her back and looking up, saw the master regarding her with a petrifying, baleful expression.

"Father," she stammered. "Why have you summoned me?" Though in her dark heart she knew full well why she had been summoned and for the second time that night felt the copper taste of fear in her mouth.

"Cynara, don't play the ingénue with me. It doesn't become you," he rasped. She cringed. The Master had always doted upon her. His displeasure could only mean that she had well exceeded her bounds. "You have had the audacity to defy my dictates and in doing so you have jeopardized the vast empire that I have built. You have taken a liberty that is far beyond your privilege."

"But he was mine. He belonged to me," she protested, again whining like a spoiled child.

"Silence. Every moment that you speak, you show me the true nature of your character. I can assure you that it is a most disappointing revelation. You had no claim to his soul. He did not succumb to your offer of eternal life. The angel was within the bounds of his duty. He could have very easily destroyed you. Why he did not is well beyond me. You could well have brought the wrath of heaven down upon all of us."

"What do you care about his wrath?" Cynara asked, baffled by the suggestion of trepidation in his tone. "Is he not the sheep God? Surely we are impervious to his wrath."

"NO! We are not in the position to oppose him yet. Never underestimate his power. In time, when his order is thoroughly corrupted, we will destroy him and take our rightful place in the light, but for now we must abide by the dictates of the old convention. We would provoke a sheep but awaken a lion. That is very nearly what you, through your arrogant stupidity, have done."

The sting of his reprimand registered in Cynara's eyes. For his part, the Master's anger was mostly feigned. As misguided as it had been, he admired her bravery. Still, she must be made to pay for her insubordination. There could be no room for defiance in his order. Pained by the need to punish her, he said, "Cynara, you have disobeyed an ironclad commandment and you must pay the penalty. You have left me no choice but to be harsh. Rise!"

Cynara was loath to be commanded by anyone, even the master, but she knew that defiance would mean certain destruction. Shaking with trepidation, she considered how he might punish her. She rose haltingly to her feet. Her legs seemed to lack substance and she fought to retain her balance.

' _This is terror_ ,' her mind whispered. She steadied herself and he gestured her forward. She had seen her master display a limitless capacity for brutality, but she had never suspected that some day that brutality might be directed towards her. The thought sickened her. "You will be a testimonial to the price of disobedience. You will carry it with you every day of your life."

He raised his left hand and gently stroked her right cheek, slowly and lovingly. "How lovely you are, Cynara. You are indeed the most beautiful of my creations."

With dawning horror, Cynara grasped his intentions and attempted to move away, but he struck with the speed of an adder. He seized her throat and held her fast. Seeing no way to escape, she began to plead. "Please father. Please, I'll do anything that you ask, but please don't scar me."

She began to tremble and fell to her knees, shaking uncontrollably. With an index finger, he pressed against her skin just below her right cheek bone, puncturing the firm flesh. Slowly he drew the finger along her cheek, closing his ears to the anguished wails of his servant. The smell of burning flesh rose to Cynara's nostrils and black smoke stung her eyes. She bellowed an inarticulate plea for mercy, but her cry fell on deaf ears. She felt her treasure being disfigured and the thought of it pushed her towards the brink of raving madness. _'My beauty,'_ she thought, _'oh not my precious beauty.'_

When he was done, he had left a thin white scar that ran from the ridge of her cheek bone to the corner of her mouth. Despite its thinness, it stood out in sharp contrast to the flawless skin around it. He released her, taking no pleasure in having marred her perfection. She collapsed to the chamber floor, her body wracked by spasms of violent sobbing. He resisted the urge to console her and trying to convey a severity that he did not feel, said, "Let this be a reminder to you that my word is absolute law. Now go and put an end to this ridiculous misadventure."

When awareness returned to her, she was again sitting in the leather chair. Tears ran freely down her lovely face and she sat riveted into her chair, afraid to look into the mirror; afraid to see the extent of her disfigurement. She gradually rose to her feet, steadying herself with both hands. With growing apprehension, she crossed the carpeted floor. She was torn between fear and irrepressible curiosity. She stepped in front of the Chevalier and gazed at her own reflection. The scar resembled a thin white snake that stood out like a neon sign. Cynara whirled away from the mirror and covered her face with both hands, feeling hideous. She dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms about her shoulders. "I'm so ugly. Oh my beautiful face. It's so ugly... ugly, ugly!"

She punctuated each word by pounding her fist into the floor, kicking up splinters of wood. Her words degenerated into inarticulate blubbering. If one did not know the true nature of the beast, it would have been easy to feel pity for the wretched woman.

3

As David descended towards the throng, the people (at least he hoped that they were people) seemed to be moving about with a sense of purpose. Without warning the wind whooped and gusted with a high pitched whine that closely resembled a woman's shriek. The sound must have struck the throng this way as well because it caused every head to turn skyward. The shrieking gusts settled back to the original melancholy chiming. David viewed all of this with a perplexed, quizzical feeling of disassociation. When his approach went unnoticed, Stillman wondered if he had become transparent. He felt spectral and somehow insignificant.

All eyes had settled upon the hill at the opposite end of the cauldron. There was an air of expectancy over the hooded masses. The flesh on Stillman's arms began to rise in great hackles. She's coming, he thought. His reaction was an incongruous mixture of relief and fear. There she came, cresting the hill, walking with the slow, regal poise befitting a queen.

He first caught sight of her head, then her shoulders and then the rest, until she was fully visible. She was clad in a white sequined robe. Like that of the others in attendance, her hood was drawn up over her head. He could not see her face, but he could sense her basic malevolence...her intrinsic _wrongness_. The poetic motion of her full hips was beguiling. He was shocked to find that deep inside himself a small spark of desire had ignited. All of the black robed figures had fallen to their knees in a gesture of supplication.

As she drew nearer, David saw that she was floating six inches above the ground, hovering on a carpet of air. _'Why was she bothering to conceal her identity?'_ he wondered. It occurred to him that this was crucially important, though he could see no reason why it would be.

When she had reached the center of the throng, she raised her right arm and pointed directly at him. The sudden acknowledgment of his presence nearly caused David to bolt. With great effort, he managed to hold his ground. She beckoned him to come forward. He looked about himself uncertainly. There was little to be seen save for the vast, dwarfing expanses of nothingness. He went to her.

He was afraid, but that odd sense of relief tempered that fear, making it manageable. Soon all of this insanity would be over. He prayed that the end would be mercifully quick. He willed his feet to keep moving and did not stop until he was within six feet of the witch.

A thunderous silence had descended over the valley. Nothing stirred, not even the wind. David could feel every eye upon him, even though the hoods obscured all of the faces. Stillman could feel the hot breath of the beast as it lurked behind the veil. When the tension had become unbearable, he blurted out, "Okay, I'm here. Let's put an end to this."

With maddening slowness, the witch raised her arms and grasping the folds of the hood, threw back her veil. A thin papery sigh escaped Stillman's lips, seconds before the full throated cry of outrage and horror. The ultimate defeat hammered into him with crushing finality.

Elizabeth Simpson stood before him, regarding him with an almost absent kind of contempt. A subtle shrug of the shoulders and the sequin robe fluttered to the ground. Beneath, she was totally naked. Her nudity brought a frenzied response from her supplicants.

Where in the past, Elizabeth had been a statuesque beauty; this creature was a vision of carnal perfection and lethal competence...a combination that Stillman found to be both repellent and seductive. Something about the way her muscles rippled and danced beneath the stretched layer of flesh suggested a capacity for swift and lethal brutality. Whereas before there had been inviting warmth, now there was a detached, cynical beauty, bereft of emotion or compassion. This abomination was a mockery of everything that had once made Elizabeth special.

The most noticeable aspect of her transformation was her eyes. They had been a deep, brilliant blue, but had become a stunning violet. They were even more striking in their amethyst glory, than Cynara's amber flecked eyes. David's heart denied the blasphemous mannequin before him. This was another one of Cynara's deceptions. "You are not real. You're not Elizabeth. You're not my Liz. Your low fucking trick won't work, Cunt."

"Now there are two." Elizabeth intoned in a voice which was not her voice. It was as cold as a winter's wind. Where had he heard those words before? The recollection came to him and with it the sinking comprehension that tore holes in his already flawed soul. It had been what Jimmy had said back in his room and now the truth of it stood before him. "Elizabeth...what... what has happened to you?"

Those eyes were upon him like daggers of ice, pricking his skin. The sound of her alien voice blistered his ears. Her glacial demeanor was that of an ice statue, though her body was the stuff of nocturnal fantasies, nubile and beckoning. "I have been shown the road to paradise, to infinite power. Here, the concept of limits and impossibilities holds no sway. I have become immortal. There are no shadows here and I now stand in the light."

"Thanks to the whore," Stillman spat venomously.

She chose to ignore his taunt, simply replying, "Yes, Cynara has delivered me. I owe her my soul. Indeed, it has been consigned to her keeping. It is small payment for such wealth, really. I have access to the infinite and legions to command."

At this, she raised her arms in a gesture of acknowledgment; comfortable with the assembled menagerie of horrors. This seemed to delight the throng and they came forward. As they did, each pulled back their hoods, revealing unspeakable horrors. Stillman took several staggering steps backwards, revolted by the shambling obscenities. Each was grotesquely mutated, some to the point where mere words could not adequately convey the extent of their disfigurement. All shared a common reptilian appearance, with forked tongues like a lizard or snake. They converged upon Elizabeth, who seemed unaffected by their ghastliness. They surrounded her in a tight circle and fell to their knees before her. David spewed out a grief fraught moan of disgust as they began to pay homage to their new Night Queen. Snaking, undulating tongues worked their way over her body, playing over her thighs, her breasts, the cleft of her ass and her vagina.

Elizabeth seemed indifferent to their ministrations, but appeared content to let them continue as if she were conveying to them some great privilege.

Stillman was aware that he was crying again. He wiped the tears away with his sleeve. When she started to react to their attentions, he could endure no more and turned away, clamping his hands over his ears, trying to wall out her wanton cries of pleasure. After a time the cries settled into a labored post orgasmic breathing that was somehow even worse.

"Now go to your appointed duties," the Elizabeth creature decreed. A red eyed Stillman turned back to her. Not wanting, but needing to see what new nightmares awaited him; what hellish twists Cynara's perverted mind had conjured. There was cold comfort in the realization that nothing she would do could exceed the excruciating agony of discovering what had befallen his beloved Elizabeth.

For some reason, he had failed to notice the others who had been standing in the background. Though he had not seen them, he was positive that they had been there the whole time. He wondered what other ghostly creations hovered in the air, just beyond the range of vision.

Like the others, these new figures were hooded, but their hoods were composed of some translucent fabric. Something about their postures made Stillman vaguely uneasy. They displayed none of the animation and energy of the hellish minions. Their sagging postures suggested resignation and paralyzing despair. Elizabeth's creatures crossed over to these others in the way that dogs would run for their dinners. One by one the monstrosities stripped away the translucent veils.

"No more," David whimpered softly. "No more, for God sakes, no more." His voice was weak and barely audible, almost as if it was an echo.

They were all there, the victims from Semelar. Some David recognized and some he did not, but he made the automatic association between these strange faces and the disappeared of Semelar. Each was naked and their bodies were as white as alabaster. He could see that they were all dead, each a lifeless hunk of clay and aborted dreams. That impression held only until he looked into their eyes. They were alive and spoke eloquently of the agony and outrage that each had suffered. There were two corpses still under wraps and Stillman's eyes were drawn magnetically to these. Stillman knew that these final two figures would be the keys to his utter dissolution.

The first veil was slipped away to reveal the body of Jonathon Ashford. His livid dead eyes spoke directly to Stillman's aching heart. "Please kill me. Merciful Jesus, please end this hell."

Stillman averted his eyes, feeling cowardly and traitorous. His gaze fell upon the final figure. One of the beasts turned to Stillman with its yellow, reptilian eyes. Its long tongue lolled lazily out of its mouth which was pulled into what looked to be a hellish parody of a smile. Yellow teeth poked from its black gums like darning needles.

On a nod of the head from Elizabeth, the beast drew a cracked nail along the veil. The material parted like the Red Sea before Moses and then fell away. It slipped away to expose the ruined body of Zved Neghev. Stillman's mind marveled dumbly at the intricate network of scars that criss-crossed Neghev's body. The scars bespoke a wretched life of indignity and injustice. Those scars symbolized the anvil upon which men such as Neghev had been forged. Now he was dead and in the hands of a thing that mocked humanity. The thing that had once been Elizabeth spoke to him. "So you see, your champion has been beaten. There is no one left to oppose the queen. No one but you and she has decided to leave you to me."

There was a distinct note of satisfaction in her voice that sickened Stillman. Cynara had created the antithesis of everything that his Elizabeth had lived to be. He could barely tolerate the sight of those strange eyes or the sound of that glacial, alien voice.

He turned his eyes to the horizon and the X shaped crosses that stood there. Elizabeth followed his gaze and smiled. She spoke to her minions in a foreign tongue and then gestured towards the crosses. Each face burst into a similar expression of nearly blissful joy. They turned back to their respective corpses and lifting each over their shoulders, carried them towards the crosses. They went to their task as a zealot would take to a revival tent pulpit. Appalled by the prospect of the butchery to come, he whirled back to face his one time lover. "This is unnecessary. You can stop this. Elizabeth, in the name of all that you were, please command them to stop."

She shook her head sadly and fixed him with a pitying smile. "Only you can stop this."

Stillman ran his hands through his hair, agitated by his failure to understand. He could never beat all of these beasts. He had no idea how to even begin. He could only watch helplessly as the scene of carnage approached its climax. All of the crosses were matched to a victim save for one, which had no victim to grease its gleaming spike. That solitary unoccupied cross terrified Stillman. The implications of that vacant cross were easy enough to read. It was meant for him.

In unison, each beast lifted its burden and impaled it on the waiting spikes. The lancing seemed to break their suspended states and the bodies began to thrash and kick wildly. Screams of agony filled the air, pitiful and high. Some tried to pull themselves off of the spike, only succeeding in exacerbating their agony. Some had nearly succeeded in freeing themselves only to be thrown back by the guarding beasts.

David could feel his stomach rise into his throat in response to the slaughter. The sand at the base of each cross was now thick and muddy with blood. Some bodies had been impaled with such force that they had been partially eviscerated, leaving guts and organs strewn on the ground before them. Only one of the victims did not cry out. Neghev endured his suffering in his usual stoic fashion. His eyes locked upon David's and they were hard and reproachful. David looked to Elizabeth who was watching the slaughter with an undisguised expression of pleasure that was almost sexual. This perversion of his lover's character, combined with the slaughter house theatrics finally ignited Stillman's rage. It burst from him like water through the Witly dam.

He charged into Elizabeth, ducking his shoulder and driving it into her sternum. His forward momentum carried them both off of their feet. He was not an adept fighter, but fury made up the difference and he flailed away at the woman with both hands. He rained clumsy blows upon her face, her shoulders and her breasts.

She had come to symbolize all of the forces that had thrown his life into chaos. He was driven beyond the limits of humanity and he clawed at her violet eyes, hating this perverse version of their once beautiful blue. He pounded at her until her face rose in a mountain range of welts. After an interminable period, all movement ceased.

He was breathing heavily, blood pounding in his head like thunder. A part of him was astounded by the absolute violence of his reaction, but still his anger had not played itself out. He looked about to find that all eyes were upon him, but none of the minions had made a move to intervene. They watched him with a mixture of incredulity and fear. Something moved Stillman to emit a bellowing, lunatic cry of triumph. It was the cry of a man that had been pushed hard and refused to be pushed any further. He roughly grabbed Elizabeth by her hips and hefted her over his shoulder. He carried her towards the vacant cross.

They made no move to stop him but howls of protest filled the Golgotha. He ignored them, intent only on extracting his revenge. Elizabeth felt too heavy for her mass and the deep sand served to make the going slow. The whole thing took on a morbid air of ceremony.

Despite the beating, Elizabeth had somehow managed to grope her way back to consciousness. When she again opened her eyes, the cool detachment was gone, replaced by fear and pain. "Please don't do this to me David. I've been used...Cynara took advantage of my vulnerability. I love you, David."

His stride began to falter. That voice, it was her old voice...the one that he loved... had always loved. He was within three feet of the spike now, but he could go no further. He set her down, hoping that his beating had roused her from the enchantment. Releasing her, he sighed, "Thank God you've come back."

Once he had released her, Elizabeth's hands came up and took him by the throat, catching him in a death vice. He could feel his wind pipe constrict and knew that he had been deceived. He started to feel faint as large brown spots floated dreamily in front of his eyes. With his last ounce of fading strength, he planted his feet and pitched himself forward. Overbalanced by Stillman's weight, Elizabeth fell backwards bringing David down on top of her. Stillman fell off to the side and rolled to his feet unharmed. The creature that had once been Elizabeth had not been so lucky. She had stumbled and fallen directly onto the spike. It entered through her neck and exited through her throat. Her body twitched and jumped like a bug on a pin. Stillman merely watched, impassive as the thing went through its death throes.

He looked to the hordes, prepared for a savage onslaught, but they cowered in fear. The wind began to gust, lifting the sand up in great abrasive sheets. Stillman closed his eyes and raised his arms to ward off the sting of their head long charge. The howl of the wind resembled the cry of a wounded animal \- pained and imploring. The very earth seemed to be rising up, as if it intended to extract revenge upon the tormentors that constantly tracked over its ever shifting skin. The force of it toppled him, covering him with layer upon layer of gritty sand. Stillman thrashed wildly at the sand, fearing that he was about to be buried, but the wind stopped, leaving only silence in its wake.

Stillman staggered to his feet, brushing the sand from his face. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt swollen. His anger had dissipated, replaced by a numbing lethargy that made each step a monumental act of will. He was once again alone with the forlorn wind, the monochrome skies and the gray earth. The others were gone. The wind had obliterated all signs of their having ever been here. Was there more to do? Would she renege upon her promise and leave him here. Exile in this monotonous hell would make death seem like a tender mercy. The feeling of isolation belittled him. "Show yourself. Let's end this now."

His call echoed back to him and he suspected that there was no one to hear his exhortation and then a section of dune fell away to reveal a dark, lightless passage. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the passage, looked back once, and entered it.

Chapter Five: One Comes Back

It took him several minutes to become accustomed to the darkness of the corridor, but it didn't take him long to discover that he had wandered into a maze. He turned left and then right and finally lost track of where he was. He was too weary to be concerned by his disorientation, reasoning that in time the witch would lead him to where she wanted him to be. His reasoning proved to be correct, as some time later, he turned a corner to find a thin shaft of light casting a lackluster, silver glow at the opposite end of the corridor. He had been shuffling along at a snail's pace, but the light gave him both energy and encouragement to quicken his stride.

When he came to the end of the corridor, he found that he was looking through the Chevalier into Cynara's library. The view between the borders of the mirror and the library beyond appeared to ripple and shimmer, much in the same way that the air along a country road will dance its odd heat charmed dance in the dog days of summer.

The witch glided swiftly into view and beckoned him to come forward. This he did, feeling a contracting in the pit of his stomach as he passed through the mirror.

Cynara's face was partially obscured by shadow, but he could see the unmistakable gleam of her eyes even in the subdued light. He recalled that the library had been brightly lit when he had initially passed through the mirror. Something of consequence had transpired during his absence. It was suddenly important that he discover just what that something might be. Cynara's smile was warm and affable. "So you've managed to find your way back, Mr. Stillman. A place of wonders, wouldn't you say? I've provided you with the raw material for many a story I would think."

Cynara's arrogance seemed contrived. Perhaps she had never anticipated his return. David could detect a minute quiver in her usually stony voice. David glanced back over his shoulder into the Chevalier. His face was pale and gaunt and his eyes resembled two raisins set in dough. The anger of the Golgotha had dissipated and with it went his last reserve of energy. He wanted to be done with this, one way or another. He would have been rather surprised to know that he had developed a fatalistic attitude that closely resembled Zved Neghev's wish for redemption or the cold comfort of death. "Where's Neghev?"

Cynara smiled and in that smile Stillman had his answer. It was the smile of one who had done something particularly nasty and was rather proud of their deed. "Neghev is dead, but that shouldn't surprise you. The Jew had been dead for years and was seeking a convenient excuse to lie down and formalize the process. Naturally, I was more than willing to accommodate him."

Stillman was surprised by the profound grief which he felt for a man whom he had met only scant hours before. On impulse he reached forward and yanked Cynara into the circle of light before she could react. He saw the thin white scar and began to laugh. Cynara glared at Stillman, but did not strike. Instead, she raised a hand to cover the scar as if it could be effaced by simply covering it up. It was not difficult to see the toll of the scar on Cynara's massive ego. Her implacable sense of vanity had been torn out by the roots.

"He hurt you, didn't he? You may have killed him, but he left his mark on you, you deplorable bitch," Stillman chided, his face twisted into a demented grin.

A blaze of pure, unadulterated hatred stole across Cynara's face and Stillman feared that she was about to pounce upon him and tear his throat out. Then, to his eternal amazement, her face began to crumple and she stepped back into the sanctuary of the shadows. In a rare moment of crystal insight, Stillman was allowed a glimpse behind the demon's facade. He was astounded by the paradox which Cynara's beauty presented. It proved to be both her greatest strength and her greatest weakness. In this respect, she was no different from any other human being. Her sudden vulnerability gave Stillman a faint glimmer of hope. "You've become ugly Cynara," Stillman snarled in a bemused voice. "I mean fucking ugly."

He saw her face blanch in the shadows and felt a warm thrill shoot through him. Summoning all of the malice he could find within himself, David continued, "I doubt I could get it up for you if I hadn't had it in ten years."

Cynara snarled like a caged animal, but there was a hollow ring to that snarl. It was more theatrical than threatening. Then he added what he hoped would be the finishing blow, gambling that even a demon could be driven around the bend and into the arms of madness. "You'll never have Elizabeth. I've made sure of that by killing her."

To his surprise and consternation, Cynara did not respond with the exclamation of grief that he had expected. He had no sooner uttered the word than a hand fell upon his shoulder. He was spun about, coming face to face with the very woman that he had just declared to be dead. In the soft yellow light, her amethyst eyes glowed like twin moons in the heart of winter. David tried to speak, but the best that he could manage was a strangled, "Elizabeth!"

A hint of a smile played at the corners of her sensuous lips. He remembered her smile to be warm and passionate, but this new night version seemed devoid of all compassion. The smile was a sinister parody of the emotions that it had once conveyed. It frightened him more than Cynara's malevolent grin ever could.

Still smiling her ghostly smile, she drew back her right hand and slapped him across the face. The blow snapped his head back and sent him stumbling into Cynara, who threw him to the carpeted floor. "Cynara has taught me many things David. Chief amongst them is the maxim that no offence shall go unpunished. Yesterday you struck me, but you will never strike me again."

A fog had begun to rise up through the vortex of Stillman's brain, making all coherent thought difficult. He was obliquely aware of the sharp flare of pain in his cheek and the warm sensation of blood flowing from his nose and into his gaping mouth. Denial came to him then. Surely this was all a surrealist nightmare. Could this happen in the world of the motor car and the fluorescent light? He struggled to his feet, fearing that he would fall again and never be able to rise. Cynara stepped hesitantly into the light. She appeared reluctant to reveal her disfigurement to her new lover.

David struggled to focus his swimming vision by concentrating upon her freshly sustained scar. There was an abstract precision to the pattern of that scar. It did not detract from her beauty, but leant the witch a decidedly cruel expression. The incongruent pairing of cruelty and vulnerability was at once grotesque and compelling. "You still have no fundamental comprehension of the world around you, do you Stillman? You're a pitiful little gelding."

He shook his head glumly. Her words were the irrefutable truth. "What happened on the other side of the mirror?"

"There is no other side to this mirror," Cynara sighed, shaking her head as if she thought him not only pathetic but obtuse as well. "Look inside of yourself, into your mind and beyond into the waste land of your soul. True, on the other side of this mirror you succeeded in killing Elizabeth, but in your mind and in your life, you have consistently destroyed everything that you have ever professed to love. When you crossed the plane of that mirror, you entered the bleak expanses of your own mind. You are barren, Stillman. You have lived your life as if it were the empty place that I sent you to. I can't think of anything more contemptible than running from responsibility in the name of self realization. All along you were actively seeking reasons to fail, to sink into the refuge of oblivion like the waste of humanity that was your father. Neghev accused me of being a parasite, but I have a lust for life, a vitality that you have never had. Of the two of us, you are the true insidious cancer. Your presence drains the life from everyone around you - everyone who is foolish enough to try to love you."

Stillman could not muster the energy to defend himself against her indictments. She took his face in her palm and forced him to look into her eyes. "The thing that infuriates me the most is that you tried to bury Elizabeth in that same grave of banality. You almost succeeded in dragging her down to your level of mediocrity. Look at her and tell me that I am a menace to her. What would she have become under your ruinous influence? Can you swear that you would not have eventually dragged her down? You have the gall to claim that you have come here to save her. I scoff at your self serving chivalry."

Having said this, she spit into his face. Stillman was indifferent to the glob of green spit that ran along his cheek. Know the truth and it shall set you free. Cynara had spoken the truth, but there was no bliss in freedom. He had squandered his life and worse still, he had come close to ruining Elizabeth's as well, had maybe even driven her into the arms of this monster. The first was lamentable but the second was tragic. Cynara spoke with nails and barbed wire. "I'd like to kill you, to take you apart muscle by muscle, for what you have done to her. Instead, I'm going to offer you a choice. You may stay in this world, living with the certainty that someday I will come to kill you. Meanwhile, you must accept the bitter truths of the new reality. Truths such as this:"

Cynara gestured towards Elizabeth, who obediently glided over to where the witch stood. Placing a hand upon Cynara's shoulder, Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed her full lips. Liz deftly undid the knotted sash of the witch's robe and pushed the garment to the floor, revealing Cynara's flawless body. Going to her knees, Elizabeth began to suckle Cynara's nipples, tenderly playing at each until they stood erect and swollen.

Even as Stillman heard the moan of misery whistle through his bloody lips, he could feel his traitorous body responding to the erotic artistry of Elizabeth's ministrations. He experienced a moment of self loathing so intense that his long suffering spirit finally broke. His former lover's tongue had reached the gateway of Cynara's passion. Stillman could not turn a blind eye to the profound effect that her attention was having upon the witch. Cynara had begun to pant and gasp and each exclamation of delight drove Stillman further into the realm of the lost and the mad. Cynara set her eyes upon him. They were alive with pleasure; her face was contorted into a mask of sheer ecstasy. "You have one other option. You can step through the mirror and back into the void. There is a certain comfort in numbness; a certain stability. There, you will be beyond accountability for your worthlessness. There, you will be free to indulge your self pity to the fullest. The choice is yours. You may go through the mirror and seek refuge in your own pessimism and inadequacy or you may stay here and confront the harsh realities of this world, jaded and worthless as you may now be."

She punctuated her words with a thunderous utterance of delight as Elizabeth's magic wove its irresistible spell upon her flesh. The relish with which Elizabeth serviced her new master sickened Stillman and bludgeoned him with the one insufferable truth. It proclaimed his failure, casting it in iron and flesh. He was powerless to intervene. He felt intolerably impotent, knowing that the witch was indeed immortal. Seeing the travesty and perversion of his one time lover forced him to wallow in the miasma of his own worthlessness.

Even his one comfort, his writing, seemed superfluous and artificial in light of all that had happened. The witch was a shrewd creature. She blended truth with lies in an unsettling and confusing proportion that made nothing seem certain. She unbalanced her enemies by distorting the very fabric of reality. All of that aside, he was indeed a true failure and with a grim sense of finality he realized that this was all that he would ever be. Watching Elizabeth Simpson as she labored on her knees, he knew that his world was a shambles and that no phoenix would rise from the ashes. He turned from the repulsive meeting of flesh to the Chevalier. It had gone black once again. Was there something moving in the blackness? He thought that there was. It beckoned to him in the way a lighthouse beacon will call to a floundering ship. Both Cynara and Elizabeth watched him silently. Finally it was Elizabeth who spoke. "Go David. The midnight sea is not without its warmth. Step through and your debts to me will be cancelled. Perhaps there will come a day when I may recall you in a kinder light."

He rose, and with more purpose than he had ever displayed in his life, he strode to the mirror and through it like a man diving into the sea.

Stillman went, ever eager to please the only person that he had ever truly loved.

Elizabeth slowly rose to her feet, watching her new lover with her unfathomable arctic eyes. Cynara's mouth began to work as tears of pain and bitterness welled from her eyes.

"Look at my face Elizabeth. It is ruined." she wailed, taking no apparent pleasure in her final victory. Elizabeth grasped Cynara's shoulders firmly and whispered, "You are beautiful."

Cynara searched the other woman's eyes for some sign of falsehood and seeing none, gave Elizabeth a shaky smile of gratitude. Elizabeth returned her smile and then pushed the night queen to her knees. Cynara set about expressing her gratitude in a more physical way. Elizabeth stared impassively into the gloom of the mirror and then looking down at the witch, she began to smile.

Epilogue: The Departure

1

When the sun rose Sunday morning, its rays fell on a town that was essentially dead. During the night, the fire had advanced through the town like a juggernaut, defying all attempts to contain it and killing six hundred and thirty people as it went. When the fire was brought under control the lowlands looked as if they'd been put to the torch in some demented dictator's scorched earth campaign. The Lowlands, the collection point for the town downtrodden, lay in ruins. By contrast the northern suburb was mostly untouched save for a comparatively minor amount of rain and wind damage.

2

When the blaze was extinguished and the State disaster relief force had all left, the citizens of the battle scarred town must have looked about to assess the changes that had swept through their lives. As the weeks passed some of these alterations made themselves evident. If they had cared to look, these are some of the things that they would have discovered: the day after the fire was extinguished, Sheriff Avery Mathis resigned. Within a week of his resignation he had moved to Seattle. Cynara Simonovic also resigned her position as Director of the Semelar Psychiatric facility, stating that, in light of Lewis Freedman's escape, she no longer felt safe in Semelar. Within three days she was gone, having procured an agent to close her house and move her belongings.

David Stillman, Elizabeth Simpson and Lewis Freedman were among the missing. They had vanished as if they had never been. Both Nathaniel Simpson and Jimmy Simms were placed in State appointed foster homes, but not long after Avery Mathis applied to adopt the two boys. Eventually he succeeded and moved the two to his home in Seattle, where he had found a job as the head of a local security company. The town gradually climbed out of the rubble, but the new Semelar only loosely resembled the old. The Lowlands had been rezoned and where before moldering tenements had once brooded, only quaint little bungalows could be seen. Several long standing businesses closed down and the proprietors left. For them Semelar had gone inexplicably sour. The town settled back into a pattern, but the Semelar of David Stillman and Elizabeth Simpson was gone forever.

3

As the man stumbled along the street, the people who marked his approach gave him a wide birth. There was something about the vacuous, disconnected look in his eyes that was vaguely disquieting. He wore a ratty brown topcoat against the November rain. He came across a store front window displaying a bank of television sets, all of which were tuned to the local news. The store owner had set up an external speaker so that people on the sidewalks could hear the audio portions of the broadcast.

The man in the brown coat came to a jerky halt before the window and stood staring intently at the television set. The local anchorman's voice filled the chilly air: David Stillman, a Los Angles based author, is still listed as missing as is Lewis Freedman. Freedman is wanted in connection with the attempted murder of Doctor Cynara Simonovic. Doctor Simonovic is an internationally prominent psychiatrist.

There was the tiniest of flickers in the derelict's dull blue eyes, but it died the instant the anchorman moved to another story. A gust of wind hammered the man and he drew his collar against the bite of the moist air. His face settled back into its previous slack expression and he resumed his stumbling walk along the rain soaked sidewalk.

4

As the two women boarded the Pan Am flight from Los Angeles to Mexico City, every eye turned towards them, the men especially fixed them with open gazes of appreciation. Both women were tall and extraordinarily beautiful. Their conservative clothing did nothing to hide the exquisite figures beneath.

One was a spectacular blonde with high angular cheek bones and the most amazing amethyst eyes. There was something distant and mildly unsettling about the woman. She appeared to be separated from the world by an insurmountable wall of ice. The other woman was a statuesque dark haired beauty with lovely aristocratic features. A thin white scar ran from the ridge of one cheek bone to the corner of her mouth. Oddly enough the scar only served to enhance her allure. They took their respective seats in the first class section with the dark lady sitting in the isle seat and the blonde in the seat beside the window. Cynara turned to the elderly gentleman seated across the isle and favored him with a dazzling smile. Then she turned to Elizabeth and whispered, "We have worlds to conquer, my love."

"Worlds to conquer," Elizabeth echoed with a soft murmur and then smiled an inscrutable smile. Then she turned her gaze back to the window and the horizon beyond. The plane taxied along the runway and then took off, carrying ice and darkness into the golden light of day.

George Straatman lives with his wife Louise and their furry friends in Timmins, Ontario. They ask that we all embrace compassionate living by being kind to the earth and its creatures.

Visit his website at www.georgestraatman.com

