 
THE CONVERGING: CLOSURES IN BLOOD

By

GEORGE STRAATMAN

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2010 George Straatman

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Other Smashwords Titles by George Straatman

THE CONVERGING

THE CONVERGING: MARK OF THE DEMON

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to Steve Efondo of Sefdesign for his work in giving these novels their striking graphic presentation. The cover design for this novel is particularly beautiful in an eerie way that is befitting the story contained beneath. I dedicate this novel to the trilogy's central protagonist, Elizabeth Simpson. She and I have shared an intense journey that has spanned more than twenty years...through every twist of darkness I could inflict upon her, she has endured with grace and dignity. Farewell Elizabeth.

Chapter One

1

The room was stifling and steeped in expectant tension. Beyond the open doorway, torrential rain pounded down on the teeming jungle, while howling wind bowed the massive trees as though they were little more than saplings. To the room's two occupants, the monsoon was a distant event...something from a lesser reality of which they were not a part.

Teacher and eager pupil, the two were naked, kneeling face to face at the centre of the small enclosure; attention riveted squarely upon each other.

"Are you ready to begin?" she inquired softly, the words rolling over her fetching tongue like diamonds over black velvet. The pupil nodded that he was indeed ready to begin and though his chiseled face appeared impassive, his mind and thoughts resonated with excitement. After all, this was to be his sternest challenge...and his greatest triumph. Acutely perceptive, Sambata spoke to her pupil in tones of mild reproof. "Be calm. Tension will only prove inhibitive. As a spiritual anchor, serenity is the basis from which every action must flow."

The pupil nodded and closed his eyes, attempting to exorcise the demon of keen anticipation from his mind.

"Slow your breathing," she instructed softly, as her eyes traced the powerful lines of his body, finally settling upon the thick stalk of his penis as it lay dormant along his thigh like a sleeping snake. "Visualize the pumping of your heart."

Gerchnau conjured the image of a beating heart. Of all the things that this esoteric beauty had imparted, perhaps this one skill had been the most difficult for Jurgen to master. Patiently, she had helped him to employ his mind as a canvas, constructing images that were increasingly elaborate and precise. Finally, he had attained a level of mastery where he could summon exact images simply by closing his eyes. Now, he pictured his beating heart.

Sambata smiled, privately pleased by the foreigner's progress. "Syncopate the image's rhythm with the sensation in your chest. Once you have succeeded, begin to exercise your will upon its function."

Jurgen complied, hearing the beat of his physical and imaginary heart. At first, they labored in discord, but as he exerted his iron will, both began to slow, eventually coming together in an almost indolent rhythm that would have set most cardiologists to panic. Pleased, the German opened his eyes and gazed at the lovely Sambata, who nodded and favored him with a brief, satisfied grin. His control of his sympathetic nervous system was that of a novice in comparison to his teacher, who could will herself into states that were poised on the razor's edge of death.

Once, early in his apprenticeship, she had amazed him by allowing herself to be buried in three feet of sand. She had remained buried for well over an hour, while Gerchnau had grown more concerned. Finally, fearing that she was dead, Jurgen had fallen to his knees and dug her up. Once uncovered, she had opened her eyes and offered him a beguiling smile. Without speaking, she had stood, brushed herself off and left him to consider the implications of the wonder that he had just witnessed. The two years since had been fraught with many such wonders, the most profound of which was that he, himself, was capable of some of the same feats.

"Allow yourself to fall deeper into the state of serenity," she commanded. For long moments after, the two remained silent, while the mournful sounds of the wind and rain held court not far from where the pair knelt. When she was satisfied that he had reached the desired state of emotional control, she said, "we will begin. This is the most difficult element of your enlightenment. I must warn you that the first moments of discorporation are often traumatic, but always remember that soul is tethered to the physical body. Return is as simple as visualizing a reunion of the spiritual and physical entities. In this regard, there is little to fear." As if to allay whatever further concerns he might have, she quickly added, "Of course, I shall guide you carefully through your first steps."

Jurgen signaled his readiness with a tight nod. Sambata laid her wrists along the lengths of her satiny thighs with the palms facing upwards in the classic fakir's pose. Jurgen quickly moved to mimic the position. Both were bathed in perspiration, though their flesh glistened in a magnitude that could not be attributed to high humidity alone. The Indian resumed her instruction. "Focus upon a single point. Reduce the infinite scope of the entire universe to that one point. Be cognizant of nothing else for this point must be the lone reality of your existence.

Gerchnau, whose powers of single-mindedness had allowed him to survive years in hell, quickly moved to comply. With a lecher's grin, he fixed his glacial gaze upon a full breast and the tiny droplet of perspiration that hung from the end of Sambata's erect nipple. The incisive weight of his gaze touched her and she smiled sardonically. "Very well, each of us must find the focal point where they may. Hold this image firmly in your mind and close your eyes."

This he did and was delighted to find that his mind could reproduce the splendid globe in all of its weighty glory. "Jurgen, this is the single point from which your divergent paths must spring. What you are attempting to do is very similar to the concept of levitation, though infinitely more complex."

"While focusing upon the object, allow your spirit to flow about you; allow it to gather around the object like a mantle, a glowing corona."

She fell silent while Jurgen struggled to comply. Sambata allowed herself to drift unobtrusively into his mind, quickly discerning that his efforts were being met with resistance. The best that he could muster was a pale, incondign flicker as if he could not surrender to the duality of his nature. Until he accepted that his spirit and his body were two separate entities, his attempts at actual discorporation were doomed to fail. Still, she silently permitted him to struggle, until his body became as rigid as a piece of statuary. She watched his efforts grow more frantic until the pale light guttered completely. Jurgen uttered a vile curse and slammed his fist down upon his thigh.

"Anger and frustration are the insidious agents of failure," she reminded him coldly, though privately she was pleased that his first attempts had been met with utter failure. Failure begat humility and it was only through humility that a man could attain spiritual harmony and serenity.

"Why did I fail?" he demanded sullenly, his voice fraught with genuine dismay. She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then explained, "All that you have achieved to this point has allowed you to cling to the physical world. From this point forth you shall no longer have that luxury. The physical world and the spirit world are two very distinct places. It is possible that one might pass into both, if they were to accept the truth of our duality."

"But I do believe!" Jurgen objected emphatically.

Sambata smiled coyly, the expression a thing of radiance upon her lovely face. She placed a long index finger in the hollow of his temple. "Here, perhaps." The finger traced a path to his left breast and then to his flaccid cock, causing him to jump at the electricity of her touch. "But not here in the more atavistic places."

He nodded slowly, comprehending some of what she was attempting to convey. Jurgen was still a creature of the tactile world, firmly rooted there and thus denied access to the astral dimension he so desperately craved. Until he could detach himself completely from his physical intransigence, he would never attain the power necessary to fulfill the secret vision which lay concealed in the dark cleft of his heart.

"What must I do, Sambata?" he inquired evenly, part of him loathing his dependence upon this woman. She contemplated this for a moment, the speculative expression augmenting her beauty.

"The physical body is the hedonist's realm. Pleasurable sensations only encourage surrender to the power of the tangible. The purpose of the Tantric ritual is to gain mastery over these tactile cravings."

Gerchnau's face remained impassive, though he shuddered at the very mention of the tantra, which had subjugated him to so much grief over the past two years.

"Pain has the opposite effect," she continued. "It encourages one to withdraw, to seek shelter in the world of spiritual perception. Perhaps this is the direction that you must follow. Through suffering, it is likely that you might divorce yourself from the prison of your own flesh. Are you willing to submit to this new path, Jurgen?"

Her limpid eyes bore into him and for a fraction of a moment, he was overwhelmed by apprehension. Despite her exquisite beauty, this was a woman whose mind he could not begin to fathom. Though he was no stranger to suffering, instinct admonished him that this woman's brand of torment would pale anything to which he had been exposed thus far. The reluctance lingered for only a second. Astral travel was something that he must posses if he was to fulfill the dark calling of his vision.

He signaled his acquiescence with a tacit nod and she greeted his acceptance with a decidedly wicked grin. Jurgen did not move as she rose, finding his body locked in a tetanus of anticipation and apprehension...the two opposing forces causing his heart to thunder. He traced her movements with his eyes, enchanted by the poetic sway of her hips and long legs. The subtle bounce of her full breasts and the luster of her skin pulled him firmly back into the tangible world.

After a moment, she returned with an assortment of items that would help engineer the insidious lesson she had concocted for her pupil. Amongst these was a small brazier, which she sat upon the floor next to the fascinated Gerchnau. As he watched, Sambata closed her eyes and passed her two palms over the tiny lumps of coal within the brazier's cauldron. Abruptly, they began to glow a brilliant orange, though she had employed no discernable means to ignite them.

Jurgen said nothing. This woman was a repository of surprises, though this was a new manifestation of her power. This done, she lay a cloth upon the bare wooden floor next to the brazier. Fingers deftly undoing the knot, she removed the wrapping and unrolled the cloth to reveal a number of long silver needles.

Gerchnau inhaled sharply, but Sambata raised a placating finger to her lips. Each of the thirteen needles was then arranged carefully on the rack of the small brazier and the pair looked on wordlessly as the tiny skewers began to heat. When Sambata was satisfied that each of the needles had reached the requisite temperature, she instructed Jurgen to rise, regarding the German with an inquisitive expression. Though Jurgen was six feet, four inches tall, the woman before him was perhaps only two inches shorter. "You are a novice. Despite all that you have achieved – and these accomplishments are most admirable – you are still in the infancy of your spiritual evolution. What I propose to do would propel you to the highest stage of development. Only fakirs and yogis of the highest caliber would willingly subject themselves to the test of the thirteen needles."

Jurgen made no response, but continued to regard her with his unfaltering arctic gaze. She frowned, a moment of cold unease piercing her mantle of serenity. ' _You know nothing of this man, Sambata_ ,' she admonished herself. ' _His purpose is veiled in shadow and you presume too much._ ' Still, something compelled her to proceed, perhaps drawn by his own exigency. "Traversing this path too quickly is fraught with peril and I would normally refuse to permit such a gamble. Yet, I sense an undeniable urgency about you."

Jurgen nodded and offered Sambata the ghost of a smile, which she construed to be a symbol of defiance against anticipated agonies. "The course of my entire life has prepared me for this moment," he intoned thickly. "Now do your work, woman."

Sambata raised an eyebrow, the only acknowledgement of his condescension. "Very well, subjugate your resistance to pain and allow it to consume you. In torment, you will find the means to disentangle your spirit from its worldly moorings."

Now the silver needles appeared to glow like the very coals beneath them. Sambata reached down and retrieved one between her thumb and forefinger. Jurgen's eyes widened, but the woman uttered no exclamation of pain. Her eyes had assumed a flinty cast and the German knew that the tantric priestess was working the very trick of detachment that she intended him to learn. When she spoke, the timber of her voice gave no suggestion of discomfort. "Stand utterly still. The heat will cauterize the wound and prevent infection."

Rivers of cold, oily perspiration began to stream down Gerchnau's brow, burning his eyes with the maddening irritation of salt and trepidation. Sambata laid the flat of her palm along the tense musculature of his chest. The sensation of her touch was like gossamer and silk against his hot flesh.

Then she pressed the tip of the needle against the side swell of his chest, where the muscle connected to the ribcage. Sambata paused as the tip dimpled the pallid flesh and Jurgen reacted with a sharp hiss, much like the scream of a boiling kettle. As he gazed down upon her, Jurgen caught a fleeting glimpse of something wizen and cruel lurking behind the inscrutable eyes. In that brief instant of revelation, the German understood that despite her professed love of serenity and the quest for purity of spirit, the priestess derived an intense personal pleasure from inflicting pain upon others.

The needle tip continued upon its journey, finally piercing the skin and slowly disappearing into the rigid muscle beneath. He had anticipated a rush of blood and was distantly surprised when only an indolent trickle issued from the wound. It occurred to him that the purpose of heating the brazier was not only to disinfect the needles, but also to cauterize the entry wound.

' _But how in God's name can she hold it_?' he wondered through the thickening fog of pain. His eyes fixed upon her fingers, long and elegant, as they exerted a steady pressure upon the needles.

"Give yourself totally to the pain," she whispered. "Visualize the needle as it rends muscle and ligature."

Compliance was an easy matter, for the pain was a hot and incisive thing. As the needles passed ever deeper, each offended nerve fiber began to thrum, building the pain in horrid increments, like a dark symphony moving towards a cacophonous climax. After an interminable time, the glistening tip emerged from the flesh in a tiny crimson geyser.

Sambata methodically repeated the process another dozen times, until the massive German resembled a living pincushion. Needles protruded from both biceps, calves, triceps, thighs and shoulders. Gerchnau's entire body quivered with indescribable agony as though she had inserted each needle to maximize the torture of his beleaguered nerve-endings. Upon consideration, he understood that she had done precisely that.

Flesh alive with agony, sweat and blood, he looked to her questioningly, perplexed by the frown playing at the corners of her generous lips. "You are a formidable man, Jurgen. Suffering is reflected clearly in your eyes and yet there is also the flame of proud defiance, where I should see only humility and deference to the mastery of your torment. Until that flame is extinguished, you will languish within the prison of your flesh."

"What must I do?" he managed, his head thrumming with the effort.

She gazed at Gerchnau, as though surprised by the question. "Why, augment the level of your torment."

The glib response struck the German as funny and he uttered a thin laugh, evoking a tidal wave of pain that transformed the laughter into a howl. Sambata regarded this seizure of pain impassively and when it subsided, she remarked. "I suspect that your capacity to endure this type of torment would surpass the limits of death itself. We must strive to find a torment with more profound effects."

She raised her two index fingers to her lips. How impossibly long they appeared through the distortion of Jurgen's fevered mind. At last she remarked, "The answer is obvious."

Again, she moved around the room, gathering up the required implements to speed her adept's education. She returned carrying a clay pot of red ochre that had been mixed with yellow and brown sacred earth. Along with this, she held five velvet bands, which she stretched over her wrist. She stood before him, assessing the German with her gaze, while holding the clay pot in the crook of her left elbow.

He abruptly grasped her intentions and grew rigid, shaking his head in negation. Her only response was an implacable smile. She delved her hand into the ochre, apprising him of the constraint which he knew all too well. "Ascension is gained through restraint and self-control. Should you spill your seed, you will be banished from this place forever."

With maddening slowness, she began to apply the ochre to his groin. In the extremity of his pain, Jurgen had believed response to be impossible, but as his penis grew rigid, the German gained a fresh insight into his nature and vulnerability.

What followed did indeed magnify his pain to levels that tore away the very facility of conscious thought. Instead, the German became a purely physical entity...a receptacle for suffering.

Sambata released his tortured organ, convinced that the bonds would serve their purpose. Then she grasped his hand and led the German out into the monsoon.

Each simple movement exacerbated Gerchnau's agony, but he limped through the thick jungle as the silver needles winked obscenely in the dull light. At last, the pair emerged into a small clearing. Here, the wind and the rain held court without challenge...a merciless master over the helpless land and the dependent creatures who scurried over its face.

Tenderly, she assisted him to the grass and pressed his eyes closed with her palms. Shouting so as to be heard over the howl of the wind, Sambata imparted one final bit of advice. "Pledge fealty to your torture. Allow it to possess you. Then turn away from it and into yourself. If you achieve this, then you need only will yourself to shrug off the tangible shell."

Jurgen managed a tight nod. "I shall await your spirit, Jurgen Gerchnau."

As she turned away, the German's lips twisted into a baleful frown. Then he closed his eyes and allowed the vortex of all-consuming pain to swallow him whole.

2

The road that Jurgen Gerchnau had followed to reach this moment of profound suffering was perhaps the most bizarre that a human being had ever endeavored to follow. Until his fateful meeting with the Romanian bureaucrat, Yuro Petru, Jurgen had lived the life of a mindless predator, driven by the abstract yet compelling need to kill. At first, he had sated these depraved urgings in a more or less legitimate manner, first as a member of the elite East German Commandos and then as a mercenary. When the last of the battles had been fought, Jurgen had been set adrift in a world where he could serve no purpose. Jurgen was pragmatic enough to realize that he had become an embarrassing fixture that the new world order would prefer to forget.

Thus, Gerchnau found himself alone with the atavistic need to kill and soon made the horrifying transition from state dog to serial killer, leaving a swathe of mutilated bodies in his wake as he allowed the winds of fortune to blow him through Eastern Europe.

In Romania, his frenzy had driven him to even greater excesses and he had been caught and consigned to a life of hell. In retrospect, Jurgen was convinced that his encounter with the demented Petru had been the work of predestination. The German had been positive that Petru's story of a supernatural Goddess had been the contrivance of a seriously deranged mind, but he had been willing enough to indulge Petru's dark fantasy if it meant a chance at freedom.

All of that had changed with stunning permanence the day that the Gypsy girl had killed Petru near the isolated mountain clearing. Jurgen need only close his eyes to summon the brutally graphic memory of the Romanian's demise. She had not merely killed him; the Gypsy whore had eradicated her tormentor with a finality that had defied reason. He had replayed the incident in his mind a million times, attempting to logically refute what his senses had insisted to be the truth.

In the instant before Petru's body had exploded, Jurgen had seen a black, spectral shape leap from the girl's body and converge upon the stricken Romanian. The expression of unadulterated terror in Petru's eyes was too vivid to be mistaken or rationalized away.

Somehow, the girl had killed the Major with the power of thought alone. Free of obligation, Gerchnau had fled with that final image forever emblazoned in his mind.

Had the Gypsy simply pulled out a gun and divested Petru's body of its miserable head, the course of Jurgen's life would have been radically different from what it had now become. Instead, her exotic means of assassination had propelled the German well down a road that he would have considered a lunatic's path before the Romanian's gruesome death.

Like a predatory beast bent on self-destruction, two thoughts had ran through Jurgen's mind in an endless circle; power and death, death and power. It had been these two concepts that had occupied the German's every thought in the grim months that followed his blind flight through the central Carpathians. Beleaguered by intense hunger and bitter, merciless cold, Jurgen had stumbled through the silver fields of ice and towering, purgatorial wastes of jutting granite. Only a fierce determination to defy death had prevented the German from capitulating to the elements and his own deteriorating body.

In the extremity of his torment had come a crucial revelation that had set Gerchnau upon a new path. Death and power; these two notions were inextricably linked and he came to realize that these had been the two concepts that had governed his life since he had been old enough to understand the ways of the killer.

Death, the termination of life and the extinguishing of life's spark, had led the German to develop an intense fascination with the grim father. He had been a proficient dispenser and with this proficiency had come had come the dark and coveted twin; power. These two notions were connected like inseparable Siamese twins. The doling out of death was the ultimate expression of power. Oh, one could subscribe to the liberal, philosophical bullshit about advancement of enlightenment and the fulfillment of brilliant visions. Jurgen dismissed this nonsense with a disdainful grunt of disgust. Death was power and Jurgen had come to view himself as a skilled technician.

Yet, power eluded the massive German despite the certitude that his was the efficacy of terror. Why?

Hungry, wretchedly cold and hovering near the abyss of physical exhaustion, the nova of crystalline revelation had burst in the German's frazzled mind. He had stumbled to his knees and gazed up into the slate gray skies of Northern Romania as though he expected a thunderous proclamation from God himself.

Instead there had come the pellucid recollection of the moment that the Gypsy had unleashed her astonishing puissance. By comparison, guns and explosives were little more than child's playthings. With a power such as this Gypsy girl possessed, a man of ' _comprehension_ ' could become virtually invincible.

To kill by simple formation of thought, thus dispensing with the need for elaborate weaponry was the very apex of the death art. If this was not astonishing enough, it suddenly occurred to Jurgen that his initial condemnation of Yuro had been...hasty.

His mind was drawn back to the seemingly endless hours in which he had endured the Romanian's harangue about the supernatural entity that Jurgen had been released to kill. Then, he had summarily dismissed the Major as a raving lunatic, plagued by a supernatural fixation. The German, ruled by tangible pragmatism, had been willing to indulge the madman's dementia if it provided him with a means to freedom.

Was this mysterious demon a contrivance brought forth from the fevered recesses of a seriously deranged mind? Before the episode in the pass, Jurgen's reply would have been an unequivocal yes. Now, he was not so certain.

If he allowed for the existence of a demon, it would then be necessary to reconsider his entire reality...its limits and possibilities. He recalled the one time when he had caught a brief glimpse of the alleged entity. One need only look at Cynara Saravic to realize that she possessed an extraordinary mantle of power and confidence. She exuded this power the way the sun might radiate heat. Something else had convinced Jurgen that there might indeed be an aspect of truth to Yuro's wild allegations...the expression of unadulterated terror that had dawned on Petru's face when Cynara had appeared before him.

The prospect of killing Cynara had become all the more intriguing given what he had come to suspect. Witnessing the Gypsy's dramatic destruction of his sponsor had forced Jurgen to reevaluate his ability to liquidate Saravic. If this woman, whom Petru had insisted was but a mere mortal, was capable of such a vulgar act of power, what array of terrifying weapons might a demon unleash?

He had considered the subtle nuances and profound implications of these questions as he stumbled through the desolate wastes of Northern Romania. In this way he had survived the ravages of the most inhospitable of frozen deserts.

By the time that spring had turned upon the slow hinge of the seasons, the pale shadow of Jurgen Gerchnau stumbled into Hungary, utilizing the last of his waning resources to elude the roving border patrols that preserved the integrity of the obsolete Communist State.

On the outskirts of a tiny Hungarian village, the German's massive will finally reached the point where it could no longer sustain his failing body. He collapsed into a snowy roadside ditch, his last thought reflecting the black irony of stumbling through miles of inhospitable mountains only to die on the edges of civilization.

The German's return to the light had been greeted by a group of earnest, concerned faces. Suffering from influenza and a Bronchial inflammation, Jurgen discovered that he had been found by two members of the local Orthodox Monastery. Even in the thrall of his illness, Gerchnau was able to appreciate the dark humor that had consigned him to the care of these zealots. They had nursed him back to health with the devotion of the sacrificial saints that Jurgen so disdained. Never once had they demanded any type of explanation for his unusual appearance.

In the weeks that followed, Gerchnau had concentrated his energy on the process of recuperation. When he felt certain that he would live, the German set about rebuilding his physical edge with an exercise regimen that bordered on fanaticism. While the astounded Monks looked on, he would chop wood for the monastery fireplaces until his body shook with exhaustion. In the hours before dawn, he would run for miles over the rugged environs of the monastery. After a month of this Spartan existence, he had regained perhaps ninety percent of his former conditioning. Still, he was candid enough to realize that his flight from Romania had extracted a horrible and irreversible toll upon his body. In his mid forties, he saw that age was beginning to rear its ugly head and the flawless killing machine was now displaying the first signs of rust.

It was at this nadir of self-discovery that Jurgen Gerchnau first encountered the speaking Jesus.

3

Other than bearing witness to Contayza Prowzi's awful power, Jurgen was not a man to lend credence to the metaphysical. He certainly did not believe in augury or cryptic portents. He fervently subscribed to the notion that the world rotated on the wheels of steel, blood and the ruthless pursuit of power.

If Yuro Petru's death had shaken that conviction, the bizarre episode in the remote Catholic Monastery had shattered it completely. The pace at the isolated abbey might well have driven a snail into a spasm of boredom. For the German, his idle time (of which there was no shortage) was spent contemplating what might lie beyond his time here. He grinned at recollection of the Monastery's elder monk inquiring if he would perhaps care to join the order. Gerchnau had politely declined, but found himself no closer to a way of filling the void of his existence.

His future was very much like a blank canvas; full of limitless potential, but likely to remain blank unless some inspiration set him to the pursuit of some wondrous task.

It was late in April when all of Gerchnau's uncertainties resolved themselves into a path of steel, leading him into a world that would defy the limits of his pragmatist's imagination. Cold spring rain had visited the mountains of Southern Hungary, steeping the peaks in gray clouds and the valleys in a brooding mist.

Jurgen lay on his small cot, staring up at the crucified wooden Jesus that was the only other piece of furniture in the cell. "Better than a Romanian State Prison," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the wooden rendering of the man whom he considered to be the oldest of fools. Though the work was crude and poorly painted, there was something arresting about the eyes. Theirs was the tangible power to mesmerize and Jurgen found that he could not drag his gaze away.

The two images began to flood his thoughts then; cavorting with each other like Hecate's hell dogs...Cynara, with her supreme mantle of implacable confidence and the Gypsy girl as she passed her invisible death sentence upon Yuro Petru. These thoughts flickered in his head in rapid, stroboscopic succession, while his eyes remained fixed upon the hypnotic Jesus. They seemed to tease him like an obscure, yet monumentally crucial riddle.

The flesh upon his naked torso abruptly rose into great hackles and he realized that something odd was about to happen moments before it actually did.

The wooden eyes, their familiar expression conveying the cumulative woes of humanity, abruptly blinked.

Gerchnau shook his head, his brow wrinkling in consternation. He knew that, should one stare at something long enough, their eyes would begin to perceive illusory movements. He had learned this on the endless mercenary nights in the Jungles of Central Africa. He was quickly disabused of this notion the instant his eyes returned to the crucifix.

The small statue was alive and animated with an emotion that was definitely not Christian in nature.

"This is a bitch of a way to spend eternity," the crucified Jesus complained in a voice that was small and hoarse.

Utterly astounded, Jurgen said nothing. He merely gaped at the figurine as though he had suddenly become myopic. The tiny blue eyes regarded the German was sardonic amusement.

"What's the matter, Jurgen, see something green?" the thing inquired affably.

"I'm dreaming," he assured himself, dragging the heels of his hands over the sockets of his eyes.

"Perhaps," the miniature Jesus remarked amiably, "but it is not every day that a man has such a divine dream. Illusion or not, you would be well advised to take full advantage of it."

"What do you want of me?" Gerchnau demanded, sensing that this might not be a random excursion into lunacy after all.

"Nothing more than some palaver. You have a problem...a long future and no real way to fill it. I have a proposition that would, should you have the good sense to accept, provide a solution to that particular problem."

Gerchnau slowly swung his feet onto the floor and sat on the edge of the bed. "Speak."

"You have been plagued by visions of power; intimations of hidden realms where the limits of this inhibited world hold no sway. I am here to assure you, with unequivocal surety, that these realms do exist. What's more, the things that you have witnessed are only the most rudimentary of talents...child's play if you will."

Now Jurgen's expression of intrigue had deepened to avarice. The thing recognized the German's greed and uttered a laughter that reminded the Gerchnau of glass being dragged over stone. "My benefactor has noted that you are not without your own special skill. Your decided propensity has attracted the attention of those who have a refined appreciation of such ability."

"What could you possibly know of me?"

"We know all that there is to know about you, Jurgen. We watch...and on occasion, we reward."

"What do you have that I could possibly want?" Gerchnau demanded, suddenly impatient with this illusion and its abstract chatter.

"Power without limit and the opportunity to fulfill your ultimate fantasy...the challenge of attempting to kill what cannot be killed. Next to this, the trapping of wealth lose their luster, though should you succeed, yours will be wealth sufficient to live a thousand lifetimes," the speaking Jesus offered smoothly.

Jurgen's eyes widened in comprehension and his excitement mounted at a geometric rate. "You're speaking about the witch? You're speaking about killing Cynara Saravic?"

What followed was disconcerting even to the normally unflappable Gerchnau. There was something both compelling and repulsive about the panorama of emotions that rippled over the wooden features. The hardwood appeared to transform itself to reflect intense anger, profound regret and a host of other sometimes conflicting, powerful emotions. Eventually, the tiny face settled into a portrait of rueful disdain. "Among other things, your demented friend was woefully misguided. His perceptions of Cynara Saravic were the products of his own paranoia. The very fact that he would dispatch you to kill Cynara is indication of how insane he truly was...and how horribly ignorant."

"Ignorant?" Jurgen echoed, momentarily perplexed.

"He hadn't the slightest concept of what it was that he was attempting to destroy."

"You're telling me that everything he suggested about this woman was true?"

The thing threw back its head and uttered a high, reedy laughter. "Magnify his speculations to the nth power and you begin to approach what Cynara was. You could no more have killed her than you could draw the sun down form the heavens. Fortunately, bearing witness to Petru's lamentable demise disavowed you of such a suicidal pursuit."

"If it is not about killing Cynara, then why have you come to me?" Jurgen demanded with a tone of impatience. Gradually, the thing's expression shifted to one of appraisal.

"Your hunger has attracted our attention and your talent will serve our purposes effectively. If you possess the courage, my benefactor is prepared to bring meaning to the aimless desolation of your existence."

The speaking Jesus paused, regarding the mercenary expectantly. Despite the sense that this was all a vivid hallucination, Gerchnau's body was suffused with an electric tension as though his entire life had been carefully choreographed to lead him to this particular moment. After a slight hesitation, Jurgen nodded and replied "I'm listening."

The thing smiled broadly. Jurgen wondered how the devout would respond to their precious Jesus offering them such a predacious grin. "What I have to say is complicated and you must listen carefully. Before we begin, I believe that I will make myself more comfortable."

Abruptly, it pulled its spiked hands and feet free of the crosspieces. Jurgen's teeth chattered at the wooden grating sound which filled the room. Geysers of blood spattered the tiled floor of the cell. Extricated from the horror of crucifixion, the thing climbed onto the crosspiece and settled there with an elbow perched on the stem of the cross. "Before anything else can be made clear, you must realize that reality is a multi-dimensional concept. You exist in the most rudimentary realm where everything is defined by the five senses. You are subject to the same physical laws that limit the rest of humanity. As evidenced by the very fact that I am here speaking to you in this medium, there also exists several other tiers of reality. Cynara dwelt of the highest of these planes. What Yuro Petru failed to recognize was that she was exempt from the laws of your reality. It was a most fortuitous turn of events that the Gypsy eradicated Petru as she did. Had she not, it is possible that you might have located Cynara and suffered an end every bit as gruesome as his."

"You are saying that I could not have killed her?" the German asked dubiously.

"Precisely, there is but one means by which a creature of your reality might dispatch one such as Cynara...the sacred dagger of their creation."

Jurgen absorbed this last bit of information thoughtfully and then inquired "Then, who do you want me to kill?"

The thing beamed its hideous grin. "You are a commendably astute fellow, Jurgen. Now, try to follow me. Occasionally, an aberration occurs that upsets the delicate balances of the realities. Cynara inadvertently brought one of these abominations to life...what the people of your world would quaintly refer to as a loose cannon. This thing eventually destroyed Cynara and now runs amok in the world playing havoc with the delicate balance that exists between the opposing forces that govern all destinies."

"You're speaking of good and evil," Gerchnau interjected.

"Precisely, and I imagine that you realize upon whose behalf I have sought you out?" Jurgen merely nodded to the things query. He harbored no illusions as to which side of the division he might fall. "This creature, does it possess powers to rival Cynara?"

"Yes, perhaps more," the thing responded candidly.

"Then how am I to kill it?" the German demanded, sensing a subtle trap in the offing.

"Very carefully," the harbinger quipped, uttering a mirthful chuckle. Gradually, the laughter subsided, giving way to a more serious deportment that only served to heighten Gerchnau's distrust. "By killing Cynara, this abomination committed the most serious act of betrayal...one that must be met with an extreme and immediate sanction."

"Why don't you simply kill it?" Jurgen suggested mockingly, provoking a sour glance from the wooden visitor. "Surely there are other creatures of her kind who would be better suited to the task than I?"

"If only it were that simple. If we were to attempt to liquidate this miscreant, the consequences would be profound. You must understand that politics is the force that governs all realities. There are balances that must be maintained and conventions that must be strictly adhere to. If we were to move against this creature, it is likely to ignite a conflagration that would destroy everything. We are not anarchists...evil perhaps, but not fools. No, it is better that this abomination meet its end at the hands of a human being. This is why we have sought you out; the most prolific killer of your species."

Gerchnau fielded the compliment with a distant nod. "Again, how am I to kill this miscreant?"

"As I have said, the ceremonial dagger of her creation is the only means by which she may be dispatched at the hands of a mortal."

"What do I gain for the risk of confronting your aberration?"

"We are generous, Gerchnau. Should you destroy the abomination, her powers would be yours...in return for fealty of course."

The German blanched at the mention of fealty. "Jurgen Gerchnau does not submit to fealty. I am not a serf. Power at the expense of servitude is of no interest to me."

The speaking Jesus threw back its head and bellowed a hearty laughter. "You are a precious commodity. We all serve someone or something...if only the addiction of our own ambitions."

Jurgen glared at the harbinger, but discerned the truth of its words. "Very well, how do you propose that I find the dagger, not to mention actually stick it into the heart of this abomination?"

"The details will be yours to arrange," the thing retorted. "This creature dwells beneath the mantle of the shadow walker, thus she resists our best efforts to locate her."

"You keep referring to ' _her_ '. May I take it that your aberration is a woman?"

The figure nodded, casually examining the wounds in its hands "Her name is Elizabeth Simpson. She began her life as a human being. It came to pass that Cynara coveted this Simpson and attempted to turn her to be a concubine loyal only to her. Thus, this miscreant came to be. Predictably, she proved to be Cynara's bane. Now she must be stopped and we have turned to you."

Despite his instinctive mistrust, Gerchnau gleaned that the speaking Jesus spoke the truth. In Gerchnau's mind, the first lines and shadings were committed to canvas. "How will I locate her?"

The figure gesticulated and an image burst forth in Jurgen's mind, imprinting itself deep in his cerebral cortex. This was one of the most exquisite creations that Jurgen had ever set eyes upon and for a moment, his will and resolve faltered in the face of such indescribable beauty.

Sensing the mortal's hesitation, the harbinger suddenly terminated the vision. "Do not be deceived by the façade. It only makes the abomination all the more deadly."

"Again, how do I find her, if you, yourself, cannot locate her?"

The thing grinned. "That's more like it, down to the gritty details. True, she is veiled in shadows, but there may be a way to draw her out; to force her hand as it were. You are skeptical of portents, but your skepticism may be shattered when you realize that Contayza Prowzi, the Gypsy who dealt Petru his brutal demise, may be the key to unearthing your quarry."

Gerchnau raised an eyebrow, drawing forth another gale of laughter. There was a braying, hysterical edge to that sound that Jurgen did not at all care for. "You see, in her prior life, Elizabeth Simpson had a son. In a perverse twist of fate, he married this Gypsy whore. After Simpson destroyed Cynara, the two returned to the United States."

Jurgen was nodding now, clearly taking up the thread of the harbinger's logic. He had a purpose and a place to begin. Only one final matter remained to be discussed.

"Why can you not invest me with the power to confront Simpson?"

"Again, that would be a breech of rigid protocol, but there are powers to be had if you are willing to seek them out."

Again, Gerchnau's hunger made its presence obvious. The speaking Jesus stood on the crosspiece. "Even at your level of reality, there is another world. Beneath the concrete and just beyond the safety of the light cast by the halogen street lamps, there is a way of life that has eschewed the limits imposed by the five senses. In the distant past, this culture was a familiar part of everyday life, but as the Christian Church grew in prominence, its sanctimonious paranoia drove the old ways into the realm of shadows. Still, they thrive. Contayza Prowzi would bear witness to as much."

"You're suggesting that I could access powers such as hers?" the German demanded, barely concealing his doubt.

The speaking Jesus placed the tip of a bloody index finger in the hollow of its temple. "Every Human being has the ability to duplicate Prowzi's feats sequestered in the vaults of their mind. Most lack the courage to surmount their cynicism and fear. There is a hidden wealth of knowledge awaiting discovery. With its discovery will come the means to wrench the dagger from the abomination's grasp. From that point forth, immeasurable power is only a blade's length away."

Gerchnau said nothing, only continued to measure the harbinger. He suspected that a portion of what this thing had told him was the truth and that, perhaps, would suffice. "As you say, I have no other plans."

The thing clapped its hands together in a hideous gesture of delight. "Very good, Jurgen. I promise you an adventure to satiate your every hunger. I believe our business is done for the present time."

"When do you want this killing done?" he inquired, totally unprepared for the answer he received.

"You must embark upon a pilgrimage that could well take years. It would be imprudent to challenge the aberration until you have obtained a level of mastery over the dark arts."

Gerchnau nodded, another question springing to mind. "How is it that you are able to come to me in this place?"

The thing glanced about the room, its small mouth twisting with derision. "There are requiems where I would never be able to tread upon the sheep Gods' sacred ground. This pathetic edifice, raised by geldings, is not one of them. As far as this laughable symbol of faith goes..."

The crucifix erupted into flames that quickly and efficiently consumed the speaking Jesus. The blackened figurine and charred wall served as a stark counterpoint to the laughter of the departing harbinger.

Jurgen continued to stare at the ruined wall for some time before finally apprising the monks of his decision to depart their monastery.

4

A few days later, Gerchnau had left Hungary, traveling to Poland, where he settled into a rather sedentary style of life that revealed nothing of who he was or the dark obsession that he harbored. He found employment in a steel mill, while spending every waking hour of his free time reading about the worlds of the alchemist, magician and metaphysician.

In the not too distant past, the German might well have dismissed the accomplishments of Zohar, Blatovatsky and Geller as absurd fabrication. Now, he devoured these tales with utter fascination and mounting excitement. Each had claimed that their astounding feats were accessible to all. From here, he had delved into the works of Alistair Crowley, Gregor Mathis and a host of other purported magicians, wading through volumes of esoteric and confusing systems of magic. Then, he had dared to brave the written labyrinth documenting the history of witchcraft and demonology. Even after all that he had personally witnessed, Jurgen could scarcely give credence to many of the fantastical accounts written there.

Ironically, one of the most incredible had been a small journal written by a self-proclaimed mystic named Morgan. It had concerned the exploits of a supernatural entity named Baroness Cynara Saravic.

After a year of research, Jurgen was prepared to seek out the practitioners who could teach him to activate the recumbent powers of the mind. He had left Eastern Europe, first traveling to Africa, quickly realizing that he had not been forgotten by a host of old enemies, and then to the far east.

The spiritualism of the Far East, with its meticulous attention to detail, honor and tradition, quickly bored the German. He spent the better part of the next two years engaged in a mystical journey through Burma, China, Nepal and Tibet. In each place, he had been witness to a host of wonders, but other than tedious spiritual theologies, his teachers seemed unwilling to reveal the secrets behind their abilities.

Frustrated, Jurgen found his way to India, wondering if the past three years had been a futile expenditure of time and effort. He could not fight a demon by spouting platitudes, unless he intended to bore the bitch to death. Disconsolate, he had entered India like a man sinking into a dark and mysterious sea of wonders. Kali, Thuggie and the more common Hinduism...all of these things spoke of a nation consumed and obsessed with the pursuit of mysticism.

Oh, but the logic defying mysteries that he had encountered. In Calcutta, Jurgen had gazed on in fascinated horror as two ' _doctors_ ' had extracted a fist-sized tumor from an old woman's abdomen simply by kneading their way into the abdominal cavity. They had used neither anesthesia nor surgical instruments and the old woman had shuffled away in less than a half an hour after the completion of the surgery.

He had watched fakirs walk on beds of glowing coals and sit on gleaming nails, while displaying no discernable signs of discomfort. Even up close, he could detect no sham.

If the larger cities were showcases for the world of magic, the countryside was its factory, where the skills were propagated from one generation to the next. Jurgen had elected to eschew the major cities and travel north into the remote wilds. As he wound his way through the teaming jungle, he began to hear snatches and intimations regarding a legendary female mystic who lived in isolation near the border of Pakistan. Jurgen listened carefully, though discreetly, to these tales. ' _The Dove of Kali_ ' was the name that the locals had appointed to a woman who it was said, could draw down the moon and set it to dancing in the sky.

Jurgen decided to seek her out and through a series of circumspect inquiries, finally discovered where this _dove_ might be found.

With only a satchel and the clothes on his back, a forty-five year old Jurgen Gerchnau had plunged into the most forbidden jungle in northern India. Instinct informed the German that this was the final road in his journey. If he failed to find this woman, or if she flatly refused to share her knowledge, he would have to concede failure and admit that he had squandered three years of his life in vain pursuit of a devil's agenda.

As he labored through the enervating jungle, a mental portrait began to take shape in his mind; a wizen crone with the spirit of a snake and the terrifying powers of evocation. After three weeks of blundering about the jungle, he happened upon the Dove of Kali and discovered that his portrait had been the foolish construction of prejudice. Furthermore, he quickly discovered that this woman could well be everything that the superstitious locals claimed.

He had come upon her at the edge of a small clearing. Instinct cautioned him not to approach her directly because something of consequence was afoot. Jurgen had retreated into the thick foliage, finding a covered vantage point from which he could observe the woman. He was surprised both by her remarkable beauty and her apparent youth. Could she have accrued this awesome power after so few years? Gerchnau was skeptical and experienced a sagging sense of disappointment, but his skepticism proved to be short lived.

A statuesque beauty with flawless sepia skin, the woman wore a shapeless dress garment that fully concealed the geometry of her body. A gentle breeze blew through the clearing, bending the tall saw grass. The woman gazed at the opposite end of the clearing with rapt attention as though expecting something to appear at any moment. Squinting, Gerchnau saw that her eyes were closed and her full lips moved in a silent incantation. Glancing down, he was surprised to see that the hair on his forearms was standing on end, so palpable was the air of electric tension that had wound its way into the small clearing.

Something stirred in the underbrush opposite the woman. Jurgen felt himself tense, though the woman merely raised a long right arm in a gesture of welcome. A throaty growl issued from the foliage an instant before a large Bengal Tiger padded cautiously into the clearing.

Gerchnau grimaced, thinking that the woman had blundered into mortal danger, though she displayed no outward sign of fear at the beast's arrival. On the contrary, the Dove of Kali calmly and confidently moved toward the tiger with her arm still extended.

The Bengal gazed nervously about as though uncertain how to interpret the temerity of this human. She spoke for the first time; her voice resonating with an unmistakable tone of authority. The Tiger's reaction was dramatic and instantaneous...it sat down on its haunches as though its back legs had been swept out from under it.

She came to stand before the beast, fell to her knees and laid her hands along its muzzle. The Tiger gazed into her limpid eyes with a fawning expression that Gerchnau could scarcely credit. She spoke to the beast in the way that a parent might reproach a small child. Finally, incredibly, the beast licked her face and trotted back into the undergrowth.

For a moment, Jurgen couldn't breathe. He merely stood there, continuing to stare at the woman, who remained motionless.

"There is no need to skulk in the underbrush like a naughty monkey," she called out abruptly, causing the German to jump. "The danger is past. Come out and show yourself."

Jurgen hesitated and then pushed his way into the clearing. The woman finally rose and turned to face him, beckoning him to come nearer. The full weight of her beauty staggered Gerchnau, but he willed himself to approach. Barely managing to subjugate the urge to squirm under her incisive gaze, he asked, "Are you the woman they call the ' _Dove of Kali_ '?"

She threw back her head and laughed, clapping her hands together in a gesture of amusement. When her laughter subsided, she replied "I am Sambata and I imagine that your presence here is intentional. It is an extreme rarity to find foreigners in this part of India. I presume that I am the object of your search."

Jurgen nodded, helpless to resist the questions buzzing in his mind. "That tiger, was it a pet?"

A grin formed at her lips, one that spoke of mystery and complexity. "The Bengal is a man-eater that has been terrorizing several of the local villages. When they failed to kill the beast, the elders came to me and asked if I could help them. They will have no further trouble with that particular tiger."

The German accepted this in silence and without doubt. After a torturous and frustrating Odyssey, he had finally found the one who could divulge the secrets of the hidden path. Sambata repeated her question, this time without a trace of levity. "Why have you sought me out?"

Slowly, realizing that he was dealing with a formidable woman, Jurgen explained precisely what he would have her do. She regarded him with a cool glance of appraisal, before simply shaking her head. "No."

Jurgen blinked, and for a brief moment he was possessed by the impulse to wrap his hands about her throat and strangle the life out of her. That his years of searching would end with such a perfunctory dismissal was utterly infuriating. Something, some rare sense of moderation, pleaded for reason. It informed him that he must not display anger, nor must he plead. ' _Let patience declare your worthiness_ ,' the alien voice advised. Slowly, Gerchnau's anger began to abate.

A mirthful smile formed upon Sambata's lips as she moved into the jungle. On impulse, Jurgen decided to follow her, not certain what he should do next. She walked through the thick foliage as though oblivious to being followed, while he tracked her movements at a distance of some twenty yards. Eventually, the pair broke into an opening that consisted of a vegetable garden and a collection of modest wooden buildings. Sambata entered the largest of these and closed the door behind her, sparing the foreigner one final inscrutable glance.

Jurgen allowed his chin to settle onto his chest. ' _What now_?' he wondered, immediately realizing that there was no other alternative but to wait. He sank to the ground and sat cross-legged in the center of the mystic's yard.

Sambata did not emerge that night or all of the next day. Gerchnau did not move. He could feel his muscles stiffen and begin to ache dully. He wondered how long it would be before they began to cramp and scream like rusty piano wires. The arrival of the second nightfall brought with it torrential rains that continued for three days. Still Jurgen did not seek shelter. He sat in the middle of the now watery quagmire, soaked to the skin and weakening badly. On the morning of the fifth day, the clouds cleaved and the sun broke on a desperately hungry and fevered Gerchnau.

The front door abruptly swung open and Sambata stepped into the deep mud. Her expression was one of exasperation, though the German sensed a measure of amusement couched behind the truculent glare.

She came to stand over him and he again marveled at how tall she was. With a touch of impatience, she demanded, "How long do you intend to sit on my doorstep?"

He glanced up and his head began to swim as she wavered in and out like a poorly projected holograph. Distantly and without any prior notion of what he might say, Gerchnau replied, "Until you accept me as your pupil...or until I die. Either way, I have no intention of leaving this place."

Sambata remained silent, searching his Arctic blue eyes. She shivered then as though her subconscious had gleaned some insight into the foreigner's true essence. Without further comment, she spun about and returned to the house, closing the door with a slam which echoed of finality in Jurgen's ears. After several moments, he hung his head and closed his eyes, now in closer proximity to dejection than he had been at any time in his life.

He was still confronting the bleak prospect of impending failure, when the door again swung open. She stood upon the top step, regarding the tall German, while holding a heaping food tray. Gracefully descending the steps, she crossed the yard, never once taking her eyes from Jurgen's crude, chiseled features.

"Rise," she commanded, her tone clearly indicating that she expected immediate and unquestioning compliance. Jurgen rose, but his muscles locked into a tetanus of cramps, sending him stumbling face-first into the mud. As he writhed about, waiting for the pain to abate, Sambata watched his plight impassively.

When the German finally managed to climb to his feet, Sambata turned back to the house and gestured for him to follow. Once inside, she carefully and firmly detailed the terms under which he would be allowed to serve as her adept. "If you are to be my pupil, you must pledge absolute subservience."

Jurgen nodded humbly, seeing that Sambata's eyes were set in a flinty cast that hinted at a firm mettle beneath the lovely façade. "There are things that you must understand if you are to remain here, the foremost of which is that I am a practitioner of the Tantra."

Then she proceeded to explain precisely what this entailed. "The body is very often the insidious corrupter of the will and spirit. Weaker men, base men, often become ensnared by the cravings of the flesh. You must divest yourself of this addiction of the flesh if your mind is to become free to awaken its recumbent powers."

"If you are speaking of celibacy, then I have learned," Gerchnau assured Sambata, not bothering to add that he had learned that particular lesson in a federal prison. The Indian smiled knowingly. "Tantra is more than simple celibacy, Jurgen. Simply subjugating an urge is not enough. Mastery is necessary and this is not achieved without a certain degree of suffering."

Jurgen regarded Sambata quizzically. "What shall I do? There is no sacrifice that I am unwilling to make...or a trial that I am unwilling to endure."

The smile broadened, becoming dazzling in its radiance. "Very well. Remove your clothes!"

The German blinked and was about to question her command, but remembered her edict and closed her mouth with an audible pop. Slowly, he removed his clothes, while she ran her eyes over his body, pursing her lips at the profusion of scars that riddled his torso. Once Jurgen was naked, the mystic pulled her own loose gown over her head. The German needed only one glimpse at the magnificent body, with its flowing curves and full breasts, to grasp the meaning of her reference to mastery through suffering.

The next few weeks, however, demonstrated that suffering was the mildest possible of descriptions. Torturous would have been more appropriate, though Hellish might have been closer to the reality of his situation.

Sambata was ever inventive in her cruelty and there were many occasions when he longed to wrap his fingers about her neck and strangle the life out of her. In retrospect, she had imparted a valuable lesson in self-restraint.

Between these panicky excursions to the limits of self-control, Sambata began to indoctrinate Jurgen in the rudiments of Hinduism and the principles that lay behind the sensory and astral worlds. To Gerchnau, his progress had come at an excruciatingly slow pace, but Sambata had seemed please with his efforts, commending him on the smallest hint of progress.

First, Jurgen had developed the faculty of silent communication and then the ability to move objects with thought alone. Levitation had come next and that had proven to be the most arduous and exhilarating experience. Now, after a five year Odyssey, through a world that few suspected did actually exist, Jurgen Gerchnau stood one component away from having acquired the powers necessary to pursue his sanction.

He suddenly became cognizant of his surroundings, though only in the most remote sense. There was still pain, but it seemed a distant thing, as though he was experiencing it vicariously. The sensations of wind and rain were even more distant, and for a brief, Jurgen thought that this could be attributed to pain-induced hallucination.

He abruptly opened his eyes, squinting against the torrential rains and the anticipated agony. Instead of peering up into the roiling sky, Gerchnau was surprised to find himself staring down upon a gloomy expanse of green field. He immediately closed his eyes, momentarily confused and frightened by the bizarre perspective. Comprehension filtered through and his eyes snapped open like broken shudders. He found himself looking down over his prostrate body as his mind soared in a dizzying rush of jubilation and he uttered a wordless cry of triumph. He had succeeded in shunting off his physical restraints. He became aware of another presence and looked about to see the spectral, effulgent image of Sambata floating above him.

"You've succeeded, Jurgen. This is the culmination of all that you have struggled to achieve," she remarked, clearly proud of her pupil.

"How...did I do this?" the German stammered.

The specter shook its head. "The particulars are unimportant. In the future, projection will become an easy matter and one not so expensively achieved."

As she said this, Sambata inclined her head toward the empty shell. "Return to your body and come to me. This is an occasion worthy of celebration."

Jurgen was initially reluctant, but had there not been a teasing innuendo couched in Sambata's voice? He though that there had. As she had promised, return was simply a matter of formulating the thought. The pain was huge, but annealed by the German's euphoria. He sat up slowly and patiently began to extract the thirteen silver needles from his flesh, finally throwing the lot over the precipice at the edge of the clearing. Then he tugged off the hateful velvet bands and consigned them to the void as well.

In the next instant, he was up and sprinting through the rain-soaked jungle, oblivious to the blood that issued from the twenty-six wounds.

Jurgen burst through the open doorway and stood at the threshold, his eyes blazing triumphantly in the muted candlelight. Sambata greeted his return with a gale of laughter.

"I could never have imagined that anything could be so intoxicating...so viscerally exciting?" Jurgen breathed, totally consumed by the moment.

"Your delight is most evident." Sambata smiled, her gaze sliding to his erection that lay along his lower abdomen like rolled steel. Gerchnau only stared back, unabashed by her scrutiny. Sambata approached him and took his hand, drawing him deeper into the room's interior. Without a word, she lay down upon the floor and allowed her right leg to splay to the side.

Her mystery glistened in the muted light and Jurgen could feel his jubilation transmogrify into white lust. Sambata reached up and grasped his penis, intrigued by its heat and hardness. Jurgen caught hold of her wrist and pulled her roughly to her feet.

"There are a few lessons that I have yet to teach you," she breathed and placed a hand upon his neck and drew him into a deep kiss. Jurgen encircled her tiny waist and lifted her up, pausing temporarily before impaling the statuesque beauty on his hungry organ. She uttered a satisfied grunt before sinking her teeth into his right shoulder and imprisoning him with her long legs.

"For tonight, I free you from all constraints." She gasped urgently, her sweet breath hot against his flesh. "I am yours without limit."

Just then, her velvet sex embraced him and he swept her up, carrying her out into the muddy yard.

As night descended, Jurgen thrust into Sambata, while the heavens poured down upon the pair as though sanctifying their act. The fierce cries of release rose to the sullen sky and started the engine of an infernal machine that would eventually drive the entire world to the edge of the abyss.

Chapter Two

1

America, the quintessential modern empire, stood on the edge of oblivion as it passed though the gateway into the third millennium. The optimism of the Reagan Eighties had given way to the hard cynicism of the Nineties and that in turn, had surrendered to the grim fatalism of the Twenty-First century. Though the politicians pretended not to notice, one need only gaze out through their living room window to see that the smooth, high gloss American dream machine was sputtering badly.

Despite decades of rhetoric and good intentions, there seemed to be no way to control the crime that had overrun every American City like a rampant cancer. In the later part of the Nineties, even the smaller rural towns of the heartland had come under siege. One indignant public figure had gone so far as to proclaim that "any encounter with a stranger had the potential to prove fatal."

Many factors were attributed as the cause of the problem from radical feminism to the decay of the Country's moral fiber. Whatever the cause, nothing seemed capable of slowing the decline, much less actually reversing it. The helpless authorities seemed to have all but lost their will to combat the problem and most of their efforts to oppose organized crime were desultory at best.

Of course, the areas most profoundly affected were the urban areas where the hooligans openly held court, displaying their contempt for the law at every possible turn. Those not fortunate enough to escape to the relative safety of small town America were forced to exist under a siege mentality, slinking about in an ultimately futile effort to escape notice of the crime lords and their capricious violence.

Seattle was no exception. The industrial port had come to resemble a war zone, the burnt out derelicts that dotted the skyline resembling something out of a futuristic nightmare. Venturing into the waterfront district (a battleground between the Tongs and the Colombian brotherhood) evoked feeling that might have been felt by a Viet Nam era infantryman as he patrolled the forbidding jungles of that great American nightmare land.

On a torrid August night some five years into the turn of the Twenty-first century, a vintage black Fury swept through the trash-strewn alleys of western Seattle very much the way a panther might stalk through a jungle.

Arturo Richeras maneuvered his precious car through the lightless alleyways with the deftness of a matador, avoiding the crates and wreckage that might easily have scratched his beloved automobile. The Fury was one of the few things that the Colombian gave much of a shit about and he quivered each time that he was forced to squeeze between obstructions. Not that he would dare display his fear before his fellow Pyronators. All emotion, save for anger and a thirst for violence, was considered cowardly by Richeras' circle of friends and he couldn't have uttered a cry of agony had his cajones been locked in the jaws of a Rottweiler. Still, there were times when he wanted to scream, to bray his despair until his lungs burst. A limitless assortment of drugs had helped to alleviate that feeling on the night that Arturo found himself cruising along surrounded by a glowing yellow corona.

The prospect of coming upon a band of Black Dragon hammers was only vaguely terrifying, even if the little yellow bastards had a nasty penchant for taking limbs as trophies. Mind you, the Pyronators had a few nasty tricks of their own. With mutual enmity had come mutual respect and each group had a tendency to steer clear of the other unless a clear and obvious advantage presented itself. Arturo understood that it was much more expedient to seek out more docile targets.

The particular area, through which the Pyronators now cruised, had been labeled ' _The abandoned zone_ ' by the Seattle martial law authority. The zone was a one hundred square block area consisting of warehouses and abandon derelict buildings that the police had virtually abandoned to the gangs. The police would only send in sporadic day patrols with no clear intention of stopping the sundry illegal activities that transpired there.

Free to operate without encumbrance, the gangs fought savage wars in the zone that might have caused Vlad the Impaler to quail and glance away. Like a black cancer, the concept was spreading to every city in the United States. Like a powder keg, these areas waited to erupt into a frenzy of violence and as these tumors grew, they ate at the city one block at a time.

The pariahs had claimed these lawless enclaves as their own, but there was one other group of people who were also forced to inhabit these inimical zones. Forgotten, the homeless had drifted into, or been propelled into the barrens, where they were quickly abandoned to the cruelty of the gangs, who gleefully visited their inexhaustible supply of rage upon them.

And so, driven by boredom, the Colombian youths had ventured into the heart of urban hell. It had been Arturo who had first jokingly proposed the concept of the Pyronators. The others had seized upon the notion like crazed sharks and although the results privately horrified Richeras, he came to understand that some things, once voiced, could never be taken back.

Somewhere, down the endless corridors of decay and despair, the group spotted just what they had been seeking. Alone and defenseless, the solitary wino leaned against a clammy brick wall, absently rummaging through a trash bin. In his desperation for liquor, the derelict had forgotten the first rule of self-preservation...be eternally vigilant.

Arturo smiled and coasted the Fury to a halt. Only when the group disembarked did the derelict glance up, his eyes immediately filling with terrible realization.

"Hey old man, you hungry?" Arturo taunted, attempting to feign sympathy but missing the mark by a wide margin. The derelict began to back slowly away, his gaze darting from one pair of pitiless brown eyes to the next.

"I don't want nothing from you," he croaked, his attempt at defiance as feeble as Arturo's attempt at sympathy had been. "Just leave me alone."

"You hear that, Arturo, he wants to be left alone," Chalo brayed between clenched and rotting teeth.

The derelict glanced longingly at the far end of the alleyway. Arturo followed his gaze and uttered a derisive spate of laughter. "We offer help and you spit in the face of our generosity, man."

Richeras snapped his fingers and two of the Pyronators circled behind the derelict. Opening the trunk of the Fury, they retrieved a pair of pesticide dispensers and came back around to where Arturo stood.

Despite years of systematic alcohol abuse, the wino still possessed enough coherence to grasp the severity of his dilemma. Wheeling about, he started off into the darkness. War cries echoed through the sultry night as the Pyronators were off in savage pursuit like a pack of rabid jackals. The chase was short-lived and pathetic as the five caught up to the old man, bringing him to the ground with a volley of punches and kicks. The derelict pitched forward into the dirty water of the alley drainage channel.

"Fucking bum!"

"Useless fucking leech!"

Along with unrestrained physical violence, the Columbians heaped their crude invective upon the fallen derelict. In the twisted labyrinth of their minds, they may have actually believed that they were providing the world with a legitimate service.

When the last of the rage had been vented, Richeras signaled for the pair with the pesticide dispensers to do their work. The old man was insensate and when the boys began to douse him with fuel, he did not even stir.

As the pungent stench of fuel filled the alley, the five stepped back and Arturo produced what had come to be known as the ceremonial lighter. He held it aloft and depressed the igniter. A stark blue flame shot a full two feet into the air and Arturo declared, "Working for a better America."

He then dipped the lighter to ignite the derelict's stinking overcoat. In the blink of an eye, the old man became a ghastly human torch, his wail of agony as brilliant and piercing as the flames that consumed him. He flailed and screamed for what seemed like an eternity, while the Columbians jeered and mocked his death throes. Mercifully, it ended abruptly as the dancing horror collapsed to the pavement.

As the group shuffled about, the derelict began to burn in earnest. Arturo regarded this with much solemnity, before gesturing for the others to pile back into the Fury, leaving the wreckage of what had been a woeful life to burn in silence.

2

While a nameless derelict met his gruesome end, miles to the south, the dark pearl that was the city of Angels groped its way back to life for another day. A weak sun, its rays diffused by a nearly impenetrable layer of smog, only served to augment the sense of hopelessness that hung over the city like a shroud.

In an opulent mansion, nestled deep in a canyon in the Hollywood hills, Karnalla Mansley marked her return to the land of the conscious with a groan of consternation. She gritted her teeth and steeled herself against the wave of nausea that would inevitably accompany her first view of this damnable world.

She opened her eyes and found that she was not to be disappointed. The hangover was violent. It was perhaps not the worst that she had ever endured, but not far off of the mark either.

She literally rolled off of the sofa, falling to the carpeted floor with a muffled grunt. He stomach performed a long, slow barrel roll, so she lay there until the discomfort subsided to a tolerable level. Finally, she braced herself on the teak coffee table and hauled herself upright.

"Well done, dear," she congratulated herself and glanced around the spacious common area, assessing the damage from another night's bout of hedonism run rampant.

"The walls are still standing," she muttered, though a good portion of the furniture had been rearranged courtesy of her legion of friends. Her eyes fell upon the party bowls that had last night been filled with coke, mesc and a dozen other synthetic goodies. Now they were empty, save for a dust that covered the tables in an ugly gray patina.

She shook her head in disgust and began to pick her way toward the bathroom, trying to avoid the naked bodies of the still-inebriated that littered her living room. If asked, it was improbable that she could pick these so-called friends out of a lineup, but that sad reality had long since lost its power to move her.

She stumbled toward the bathroom, wondering why it was there that she did her most coherent thinking. Suddenly, a hand reached for her from behind an Ottoman, causing Mansley to screech. A young man, bleary-eyed and totally naked, staggered to his feet and stood swaying before her.

She vaguely remembered that his name was Zacharias and he was particularly talented with his tongue. Now the sight of him, with his long hair and arrogant cock, filled her with a revulsion that was nearly intolerable.

"That blow was fucking outrageous," he crowed and she nodded numbly, only wanting to flee into the relative isolation of her bathroom. He glanced at her body, the expression in his eyes shifting. ' _Good Christ, I don't need this now_ ,' she shuddered, despising the amorous gleam that had surfaced in the pig-stupid eyes. In a slur, he declared "You were pretty outrageous yourself."

Then Zacharias proceeded to commit the most grievous of transgressions in Karnalla Mansley's book; unsolicited groping. Her reaction to his hand upon her breast was instantaneous and assiduous. Her right knee pistoned upward, driving into his groin like a cannon shot. Zacharias collapsed to his knees, clutching his injured jewels and wheezing like a punctured balloon. Enraged, Karnalla seized a fist full of dirty blonde hair and drove her right fist into his blank face perhaps a dozen times before she was even aware that she had done so. Only a sickening crack of bone brought her back as his nose shattered in a geyser of crimson.

Gore-spattered, eyes narrowed to glossy slits, the man stared vacantly up at the mad woman, who brayed, "Never, fucker, never lay so much as a finger on me!"

She released her hold on his hair. He slumped forward and slid along her leg to the peach carpet, leaving a trail of gore along the satiny length of her thigh. Dismissing the groaning Zacharias with a grunt of disgust, she stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

Karnalla's temper was very much like clear air turbulence. Lately, it had become all the more erratic, uncoiling like a snake fraught with venom. A clap of hands brought the muted fluorescents to life and Mansley was confronted by her own image in the vanity mirror.

She leaned closer, searching for the minutest sign of erosion...a tiny line or a slight puffiness about the eyes. As always, there were none and Karnalla closed her eyes and lowered her head to the cool porcelain sink. After a moment, hot tears began to flow down her cheeks, pouring over her full lips with an acidic bitterness.

Her reaction to her own face would have baffled most as the image that had confronted her was unanimously regarded as the quintessential image of feminine beauty. Her visage, the wild mass of black hair, the high, cruel cheekbones and dark eyes like the very wells of mystery, had graced the cover of nearly every major magazine on the planet. Her beauty was testimony either to God or the ultimate conclusion of the genetic engineering process. In either case, the end product had made Karnalla Mansley the most sought-after, coveted woman in the world. She had come to be perceived as the embodiment of femininity. With this label had come unimaginable fame and outrageous fortune. Hers was the Midas face that conferred status upon whatever product she chose to endorse.

From this, one might think that Mansley would be the very essence of contentment and yet she would be more correctly categorized as a woman consumed by black despair and hell-bent on self-destruction.

She slowly raised her head and slammed her fists down upon the sink. Despite the flow of tears and a night of drug abuse, her dark eyes were as limpid as shallow pools of water on a calm summer's day.

Karnalla spun away from the image that she had come to loathe and sat down heavily upon the edge of the tub. What the mirror conveyed was impossible in the face of hours of sex, sleep deprivation and drug indulgence. Tears returned, but Karnalla felt a cold veil slip over her heart. Her beauty, her damnable, loathsome beauty, filled her with a despair and contempt that very often reduced her to immobility or sent her into immutable fits of rage. She had come to despise the image and had slid into a destructive mode to tear it down.

It had not always been thus. In fact, there had been a time (and not all that distant) when she had felt like the Queen of Camelot. Her life had been a dazzling place then; fraught with light and optimism.

' _And Orienne_ ,' a voice whispered with a tone of malicious delight. Karnalla uttered a groan of anguish. She could barely manage to utter that name without being deluged by a wave of poignant memories that ripped open soul-deep scars. Like a nova-burst, colored with vermillion, came the horrifyingly vivid image of that day near Monte Carlo. The Alfa Romeo vintage Spyder had been a jumble of twisted metal that was scarcely recognizable as a car. Orienne had been there as well and she too was scarcely recognizable as what she had been. If she was the essence of beauty, then Orienne had been the personification of grace and spiritual purity.

Through sheer and terrible stupidity, Karnalla had killed the other woman as surely as if she had held a revolver to her temple and pulled the trigger. Racing through hairpin curves like a horny teenager intoxicated on her own existence, she had finally misjudged a curve and the tiny car had jumped an embankment. She had been thrown clear, tumbling into a loose sand pile. Orienne had been less fortunate. Both she and the car had rumbled along, plunging into a rocky ravine in a spectacular burst of flames.

With the death of her lover, Karnalla was left to confront a world that held no inherent value. Only her physical beauty remained. In a monumentally cruel twist of fate, she had escaped the crash without so much as a scratch. It should have ended there, but the vast, infernal machine that was Karnalla Mansley, the product, did not even slow. Perversely, she had escaped prosecution, and her star had continued to rise at a meteoric rate.

Perhaps her subconscious had wallowed in guilt, but Mansley had come to view her life as a perverse charade. The void that Orienne's death had left in her life had been filled by a pernicious mixture of self-loathing and an acidic contempt for everything around her. Her need for punishment and absolution seemed to express itself in a campaign of abuse.

Karnalla Mansley, creature of light, suddenly became the princess of darkness. Strangely, this only served to augment her appeal. Her escapades were documented in every tabloid throughout the world. No excess, no exercise in debauchery was unforgivable and she began to see the people around her as fawning, obsequious drones deserving only of her contempt. Incidents such as the one with the unfortunate Zacharias had become a standard occurrence in her life. Nonetheless, people were always willing to concoct excuses for the exotic beauty. Adjectives such as tempestuous and fiery were thrown about whenever her name arose.

No one seemed capable or interested in divining the pain and despair that lay beneath the rash actions. On second thought, Karnalla was forced to amend that generalization. There had been, in fact, one woman who recognized the ugly duality of Karnalla Mansley's tortured soul. Betty Kingsley's insight was inspired more by malice than compassion, but it had been unflinchingly accurate.

Her criticism of Mansley had been scathing and merciless. Karnalla wondered how Kingsley would have felt had she known that she would often sit and read her notorious ' _Woman in Chains_ ' article, employing its venom as a kind of balm.

The article had first appeared in a feminist magazine not long after Orienne had been killed. If asked, Mansley might have been able to recite the article word for word.

Like a cancer, Karnalla Mansley has insinuated herself into the populist culture of the Twenty-First century. Karnalla and her addle-brained ilk have set the feminist cause back to the Victorian age. Hers is the gospel of the vacuous and stupid; an empty sheet worthy only of ornamental status.

She is a pawn through which the aspirations of serious women are subverted.

Then the article had assumed a personal direction that proved chillingly accurate.

The episode in Monte Carlo had perfectly illustrated the exact nature of the woman whom the world has come to idealize. Karnalla Mansley is a childish, petulant, irresponsible brat, who wields her beauty the way a Saxon warrior might use a battleaxe. Beneath is a wayward soul that is often morose, violent and always petty. If this is the female ideal then it is small wonder that our gender is held in contempt.

She briefly allowed herself the rare luxury of evoking the image of her beloved Orienne. Karnalla mouthed the name, her mouth forming the words with reverence and immutable regret.

It was said that, when the grieving passed, the fond remembrance could commence. To her dismay, Mansley had discovered that this was the most excruciating lie of all. For her, the grief had grown exponentially, until it seemed to encompass her entire universe.

She quickly stood up, forcing Orienne's image from her thoughts with a snarl. Punching a console near the vanity produced a floating reproduction of her morning schedule; a hectic succession of photo sessions that would occupy her thoughts until another night when she would renew her efforts at gradual but stolid suicide.

' _How long can this go on_?' she wondered dully. Gazing into her mirror, the still-unmarred perfection of her face and body seemed to suggest that the status quo could be maintained for a long time indeed. Her perfect reflection mocked her with the promise that this self-flagellation was both pathetic and futile.

Her limpid eyes gleamed mockingly, prompting Karnalla to suddenly seize an ashtray and hurl it at the mirror. The reflective glass shattered, creating a kaleidoscope that still could not disfigure her perfection.

' _Kill yourself_ ,' a voice promoted. ' _It's only fitting. After all, she is dead and you're still alive. If it's retribution that you truly want, then take it now_.' Karnalla deplored the taunting little voice, because she knew that part of her, something separate from the grief-stricken wretch that she had become would never accede to such a vulgar and craven end.

A snatch of a dream came to her then. She recalled a beautiful blonde woman standing at the crest of a green hill. She was attired in a long white gown and the sun seemed to ignite her hair into a golden corona of fire. There was a serenity about the woman that reminded Karnalla of her dead lover. The woman raised her arms in a gesture of summons and even in her dreams, Karnalla felt compelled to obey.

Despite the woman's enormous beauty and the idyllic splendor of the dream world, there was something vaguely dreadful about this dream. She strained her addled memory, attempting to bring this impression back into focus. Then it came like water through a sewer grate. The sound of hooves had reverberated over the emerald hill like an apocalyptic pall. Abruptly, the splendid sky darkened and clouds that seemed to resemble ugly bruises, rapidly appeared to fill the heavens. The blonde glanced up, her face clouded with concern.

Karnalla recalled the sense of exigency that had accompanied this particular twist. It seemed imperative to protect this creature (just as it had always seemed imperative to protect Orienne). The imminent storm now broke with the ferocity of a savage beast bent solely upon devastation. Karnalla began to sprint, imploring the mysterious woman to come down to her. Either she could or would not hear, instead remaining stationary.

Just as she snapped awake, Karnalla recalled the terror that had suffused her dream being just as a host of figures appeared over the crest of the hill directly behind the woman. She gazed about the darkened room and that terror abated as she surrendered herself to the numbing nothingness of a cocaine hangover.

Now the dream revisited her with the terrible clarity of consciousness and Mansley began to tremble. While the specifics were lost in abstraction, the general sense of the dream struck her as one of augury, but would that augury be one of good or ill fortune? Karnalla had no way of knowing, but suspected that the answer would be revealed in the not too distant future.

"Stupid bitch!" she reproached herself, striding out of the bathroom, deftly avoiding the sprawled form of Zacharias, who had apparently lapsed back into unconsciousness.

She marched to the stairs, taking the risers three at a time. She didn't notice the cumulus aura that trailed after her like an indistinct balloon. It would have pleased her immensely had she known that the balloon was midnight black.

3

"What a fucking mess!" Joubert rasped, concisely summarizing the sentiments of all present on the investigation team.

Lieutenant Stu Macevey nodded his concurrence, unable to drag his eyes away from the charred remains of the derelict that had been discovered by the morning helicopter patrol. The dispatcher had called forth five uniformed units who had, in turn, called in the detectives.

The incinerated derelict had been the fifth of the month and the second in the last three days. Stuart closed his eyes, hoping that the image would dissolve, but as he had expected, it was clearly imprinted upon his psyche. Undoubtedly, this latest horror would join the other four in a nocturnal visit some night soon.

"We've got to find the fuckers who are doing this, Joubert," Macevey declared flatly, trying to mask the extent of his revulsion.

Joubert turned his incisive gaze upon his superior. "No one down town is going to give a shit, Stu."

Macevey turned to the smaller detective, his eyes alive with dismay. "They'd better start because this is abominable beyond any logic or reason. We've turned our backs for too long and this is where it has brought us to."

Both men turned their attention to the charred husk, each watching silently as the forensics team prepared the corpse for transport.

"We have to take control of the abandoned zone, Alain. I have a bad feeling about this."

"So do I, my man," a voice declared and the pair spun about to face a stout black man, who regarded both with placid brown eyes and a benign smile. Macevey thought that the face looked familiar but he could not produce a corresponding name. Gravely, the man remarked, "I can tell you something else...if the bastards who did this are not found soon, you can expect this scene to become a regular part of your daily life."

"And who might you be?" Stuart inquired neutrally.

"Wayman Carcavice." The man replied with the ghost of a grin.

Recollection returned with a nearly audible snap, causing Macevey to summon a smile of his own. He was face to face with a legend in these parts. Carcavice ran a homeless drop-in center right in the heart of the abandoned zone. Stuart recalled a picture that had run on the front page of the Seattle Examiner and then Time magazine. The picture showed Wayman holding a shotgun, while sitting in a rocking chair just prior to sundown. The caption beneath had read: The peaceful Warrior.

The abandoned zone gangs had come to despise the Homeless shelter and had consequently targeted it for extinction. A few bloody encounters with Carcavice had convinced them that it would be prudent to move on to easier targets.

"Mr. Carcavice, I appreciate your concern, but we are aware of our situation here," Joubert remarked curtly.

Wayman's grin became at once sad and knowing. "I really don't think you do and I know that your superiors down town don't have a clue. Oh, they'll express public outrage, but privately they view the homeless as little different from the gangs."

Joubert turned away in disgust, but Macevey did not. This man clearly understood city policy and its hidden agendas better than a Joubert ever could. "Mr. Carcavice... no one wants to see this...especially us."

"It's Wayman and I really wonder if you have any idea how bad this thing can become if it isn't brought to an emphatic halt?"

Stuart, who had a pretty good idea indeed, remained silent, nodding for Carcavice to proceed. "There are at least two thousand homeless men and women living in Seattle's abandoned zone; maybe another two hundred children."

Stuart blinked. "Two hundred children...surely not?"

Wayman nodded gravely. "That number is probably conservative because there are many homeless people whose paranoia forces them to avoid any contact with humanity."

Stuart glanced down at his hands, clearly nonplussed and beginning to grasp the magnitude of the problem that he had inherited. Wayman nodded, wondering if he should allow himself to hope that he might be reaching one of these bureaucratic bastards. "Someone has decided that torching the homeless is an entertaining diversion. If that's the case, then there is no shortage of fodder down here."

Macevey grimaced and ran his hand over his face. "Can you speculate on who might be responsible?"

Again Joubert grunted in disgust and walked away. Macevey was a good cop, but Joubert thought that there were times when Stuart failed to see that there existed certain salient realities. No one really gave a shit about the zone and what went down here. It was a confinement area and nothing more...a place to keep a box on the riff-raff so that the real people could have a little breathing space. Assholes like Carcavice did nothing but fuck with the delicate balance of things. If a hundred blocks of warehouses and tenement buildings was the price of keeping the scum in one place then so be it.

Carcavice may have intuited Joubert's attitude because he folded one arm about Macevey's shoulder and led him off to one side. "Look, just about anyone could be a potential candidate. The tongs are pretty secretive but they have a tendency to only operate with a specific purpose. The Colombian gangs, well they just might. Then again, we may be dealing with a solitary psychopath. God knows that there is no shortage of those either. The point is that my people are in trouble here and we're going to need some legitimate help, not a cursory lip service."

A tone of genuine adjuration had entered Carcavice's voice as he spoke, one that manage to permeate the layers of cynicism to reach Macevey's essential humanity. In that moment, Stuart decided that he could no longer turn a blind eye to the innate injustice that had been committed in turning away from the zone. He had long abhorred the policy of confinement, but had nonetheless subjugated his sense of moral responsibility. He vowed that, at least in this case, the department would not abdicate its duty. He raised his gaze to meet Carcavice's placid eyes. "Mr. Carcavice, I can promise you one thing... we're going to get the bastards who did this and they are going to pay in spades."

Wayman's smile became ebullient. "I think that you will at that, my man. I think that you will at that."

Chapter Three

1

Nathaniel was sitting in his favorite seat, reading Clive Barker's old tale of fantasy-horror, _Weaveworld_. Nestled deep in the plush cushions of the bay window, he would occasionally glance up from the novel to gaze out over the quiet street. Somewhere beyond, in the house's upper rooms, he could hear Contayza working to prepare the nursery. Tayza applied herself to the task with a passion that few could hope to match and Nath had wisely decided that it would be best to retreat to his window and book. He could hear the muffled slap of the roller as it applied paint to the walls of the proposed nursery. Even before she had submitted to the ultrasound, Contayza had emphatically informed him that their first child was to be a girl.

Nath had accepted this without question and a few weeks later the ultrasound had confirmed what she had known all along...Nathaniel and Contayza Simpson were destined to be the proud parents of a baby girl.

Contayza had been ecstatic upon discovering that she was pregnant. Nath had attempted to match her sense of joy, but found the thought of fatherhood daunting. Why? He could not say for certain, but lately he had been plagued by a legion of ambiguous anxieties. His dreams were becoming increasingly more bizarre and convoluted, populated by a host of people whom he did not recognize. Yet, every night these strangers returned for the nightly installment of his latest trip into a revelation-like fantasy that was all the more terrifying for its ambiguity.

Nath set the book aside and took a sip of Earl Gray allowing the warmth to suffuse his body and attenuate the chill that gripped him each time he allowed himself to ponder the dreams and their possible meaning.

' _Nightmares, Nathaniel. At least be honest with yourself_.' He shook his head, reluctant to admit that his dreams terrified him. How many times of late had he awoken to find himself bathed in a cold perspiration and frantic to escape a terror the details of which were lost beyond the wall of sleep? He had been careful to shield these thoughts form the perceptive Contayza. Hers was the power to penetrate the veil of his thoughts the way that a needle might penetrate the skin of a balloon.

The mere thought of the diminutive beauty served to assuage his anxiety. In the season of wither theirs was a life of love and hope, commitment and devotion. All of the things that the world had evidently forsaken could still be found in their marriage. It astounded Nathaniel even after five years that something so wondrous could have sprung from such abominable soil. He seldom thought of that final grim battle with Cynara or the stark journey that had led up to it. He suspected that Tayza had blocked it from her memory completely. She certainly did not discuss the matter, but there were times that Nath could see a dark shadow flicker across her lovely face for no apparent reason. What did she see then? Nath did not know and he had the good sense not to inquire.

With Cynara dead, Nath had expected to return to the United States and a life of utter desolation. He had been surprised and delighted when Contayza, who had lost both Jimmy and her closest family, had asked if she might accompany him. He had readily agreed and with the rather ironic help of Cynara's fortune, his trip home had been much less arduous than the initial search for the demon.

At Contayza's insistence, the pair had spent a month in London. It was during an excursion to the English countryside that Nath had expressed his concern that she might not be given residence in the United States.

Somewhat embarrassed by what he was suggesting, Nath had allowed "If we were married, entry would be a simple matter, but..."

Contayza had cast a severe glance upon the little man and then suddenly her face broke into an amused grin. Clutching his arm to her full breast, she declared, "Then we shall be married."

It was a statement so typical of the compassionate, impulsive Prowzi that Nathaniel found himself swept away. They had been married in Coventry, England and had returned to the United States two days later. With Jimmy's death, Nath had lost any sense of attachment that he might have felt toward Washington.

With the luxury of Cynara's money, the two had traveled through the country like a pair of wealthy vagabonds. Nath had left the task of selecting their new home to his wife, quite content to be anywhere she might choose to be. He was dismayed by the evidence of decay they found during their travels, wondering if it had always been present beneath the vulgar facade of abundance. Contayza seemed only vaguely aware of this, watching the nightly news casts of murder, violence and robbery with perplexed dismay. Eventually, they had settled on Boston and the pair had purchased a modest two storey brick home in a quiet suburb of Boston's north end. Elizabeth's bequeathal had rendered work unnecessary, but both were compelled by the need for normalcy. Contayza had decided to return to school in search of a teacher's certification and Nath had returned to his work.

Gradually, the nightmares had begun to lose their graphic edge, finally fading into a manageable distraction. Over the years, Contayza and Nathaniel made love, lived, worked, laughed and played, while fortifying each other against the horrors of the past and the urban decay of the present. Contayza locked memories of Jimmy Simms deep in her subconscious and Nathaniel did very much the same thing with Elizabeth Simpson, who was not a memory but a superhuman reality.

Theirs was an exalted union of contentment...a partnership that seemed capable of holding a plethora of ugly realities at bay. All of that began to change the day that Contayza announced that she was pregnant.

Nath closed his eyes, trying to bring his nightmares into sharp focus. They had commenced just a few days after the announcement and Nath's euphoria had dissipated like a fine mist. Try as he might, he could not bring the nightmares into focus. He could, however, recall that the dreams were overlaid by the cacophonous thunder of millions of voices speaking at once. Again, the specific message would not come, but the voices, though maddeningly discordant, seemed to be speaking about the same thing. Some were angry, while others were fearful and others were rapturous. He could not decipher the riddle of this dream, though instinct warned him it would soon become imperative he unravel its mystery. He did know that the dream filled him with an atavistic terror that caused him to fear for his sanity.

Frustrated that he could not unlock the riddle, he opened his eyes. It was then that he first noticed the car.

2

The car that had so completely captured his attention was a white vintage Jaguar sedan, equipped with the standard right hand steering wheel. It cruised slowly up the street, appearing sleek and leonine. It was apparent that the driver was searching for a specific address.

Nath tracked the car's approach, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver, though his effort was defeated by the low angle of the sun, which slanted off the windshield. Still, Simpson suspected who the driver might be and his mind erupted in a Nova burst of emotion, traversing the spectrum from euphoria to stark terror like the swing of a pendulum. Finally, the car coasted to the curb directly before the bay window where he now sat. He waited breathlessly for the driver to emerge, but for several moments the car merely sat idle. He wondered if she might be experiencing the same confusion that he was feeling and realized that he had no idea how such a creature might feel. Indeed, he did not know if she was capable of genuine emotions of any kind.

Finally, the driver side door opened and Elizabeth Simpson stepped out onto the quiet suburban sidewalk. The dark appeared to brighten perceptibly, so brilliant was her aura. Scintillating in a cream cable knit sweater and matching stirrup pants, she stood on the concrete walk and gazed up at the house. Her blonde hair had been braided into a single cable that hung over one shoulder like loom-spun gold. Her gaze settled upon the bay window and without knowing why, Nath leapt from the seat and bounded back into the shadows. His mind drew an unwelcome association between her arrival and his nightmares as though this was the beginning of some terrible and unstoppable process.

She moved up the walk and then the front steps the way that the sun might traverse the heavens. Though it was surely a trick of the imagination, she seemed to cast a golden glow that illuminated everything around her. She eschewed the doorbell, instead knocking firmly and confidently. Nath felt himself stumble forward in response as though hers was a summons that he could not refuse.

From Upstairs, he heard Contayza call, "Nath, get that, honey."

Her voice evoked a welling of terror. How would she respond to his mother's sudden appearance after all of these years?

The knock came again and Nath strode to the door, hesitating for only a second before throwing it open. She stood on the stoop, greeting him with a heartbreakingly beautiful smile that was both tentative and awkward. They stood this way for a long moment, the tension escalating with every second of protracted silence, until finally she remarked, "Do you not have a hug for your mother, Nathaniel?"

The phrase evoked a bitter memory, but he thrust it savagely aside. Then he went to her and she enfolded him in her arms. He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the warmth of her embrace and the heady scent of her skin and hair. The thought of all that he had lost made him want to cry and he pushed her to arm's length. "Mother, this is a...pleasant surprise. How did you find me?"

She smiled again, her blue eyes glistening like sapphires. He recalled that those eyes had been an odd shade of violet on the last occasion they met. "Finding you is a simple matter, Nathaniel. You are in my heart and soul. Your home is pleasant. It radiates warmth the way a fire gives off heat."

He took her hand and ushered her in, captivated by her beauty. As she moved into the entrance, she intoned, "I tried to imagine how you might live and prayed that the years had been kind. It would seem that, even for a creature such as myself, prayers may be answered."

The pair abruptly stopped. Tayza was standing on the stairs, a spotting of pink paint coloring the ridge of one cheek. Her eyes were fixed upon Elizabeth Simpson, blazing like a tempest about to unleash its fury. Nath had not seen that particular expression since the night that Contayza had waged her deadly battle with Cynara.

Suddenly miserable, Nath left his mother and moved to the foot of the stairs. When he spoke, there was an imploring quality to his voice that he detested. "Please Tayza, she's only come to visit."

Contayza ignored his plea, brushing past him as though he was not there. She strode across the entrance and stood before the taller woman, who wore an expression of discomfort to match her son. In a voice that was ground glass and razor blades, Contayza demanded, "Why are you here?"

"I've come to see my son...and daughter-in-law," Elizabeth added kindly. As though she hadn't spoken, Tayza again demanded, "Why have you come?"

Elizabeth's smile faltered and she took a backward step. Abruptly, she spun about and fled the house. Contayza took a brusque step forward and slammed the door.

Nath remained speechless for a moment, as though rooted by his misery. ' _Let it go_ ,' a voice advised. ' _Everything can be averted if you will only let this go_.' Instead of paying heed, he rushed across the room and grasped his wife by the shoulders. He spoke calmly and only later did he come to suspect that the words had been conjured by some alien purpose that was not his own. "Through everything, we've had each other. Neither of us can begin to imagine how much she has suffered. Who can she turn to if we drive her away?"

Contayza absorbed this for a moment, the truculent glare not leaving her face. Then she dropped her chin to her chest and sighed. In the next second, she had opened the door and was sprinting after Elizabeth, who was standing next to her Jaguar with her head lowered and a hand raised to her eyes to mask the tears.

Nathaniel watched from the shadows of the doorway as Contayza stood before the taller woman, speaking to his mother in a low, urgent voice. Elizabeth shook her head and began to turn away, but Tayza gripped her wrist and renewed her plea while attempting to drag Simpson away from the car and up the walk. Elizabeth resisted at first, but then allowed herself to be led. Near the foot of the steps, Contayza turned about and hugged the blond. Both women were crying openly now. Nath watched them, overwhelmed by a flood of love so great that it was painful to endure.

He wanted to join them, but felt that his presence would be an intrusion upon a private moment that the pair needed to share. The two remained this way, two beautiful women locked in an embrace, speaking softly while casually wiping away each others tears. As the twilight descended, the two suddenly laughed. There was genuine warmth to that laughter and the stone should have rolled from Nath's heart. To his dismay, he found that it would not budge even a millimeter.

3

The three had found their way to the Solarium that Nath had built for Tayza at the rear of the house. Through the multiple panes of glass, one could glance up and watch the celestial ballets of a million stars as they danced their intricate patterns through the cosmos.

Elizabeth sat on a burgundy, Italian leather love seat, her feet curled gracefully beneath, sipping Chamomile tea. Contayza sat next to her, the inimical expression having given way to one that closely resembled awe. Nath sat directly across from the pair, clearly understanding what his wife might be experiencing. The weight of Elizabeth Simpson's presence was a palpable thing and her son realized that it would be a simple matter to fall under her thrall.

Elizabeth lowered the teacup to its saucer and reached for Contayza's hand. "I want to begin by saying that I've spent the last year agonizing over my decision to come to you. Even now, I'm not certain that I've done the right thing. Logic dictated that I leave you alone to live your own lives...that my presence would only reopen old and painful wounds."

Both Contayza and Nath acknowledged this with a slight nod. Elizabeth's eyes flickered with pain, but she pushed it away and forced herself to proceed. "Despite what I have become, my emotions are still human. Loneliness is a terrible force. You two are my only family and I had to see how you've fared."

Contayza squeezed Elizabeth's hand." Soon you'll have another family member."

Simpson's smile became radiant. "Yes, you are with child. She is to be a special girl, dear...one who will make all of us proud."

A cold chill touched Prowzi's heart then, followed by an aftershock of unreality. This woman, whom her baby would one day call grandmother, appeared younger than her own son, though, in human years she had reached her mid-fifties. ' _What are you, really_?' she inquired silently.

Nath, who did not seem to notice his wife's reaction to Elizabeth's portent, leaned forward. When he spoke, his tone carried a subtle reproof. "My question is not, "why did you come?" but why did you not come sooner?"

Elizabeth broke the scrutiny of her daughter-in-law and returned attention to her son. The network of deep lines etched into the skin about his eyes and mouth hurt her heart. "That's not an easy question to answer Nathaniel, but it is one that is deserving of an explanation and so I will try to provide one. The first reason is basic: when I killed Cynara, I was certain that there would be reprisals. I could not risk the possibility that my presence would not endanger my only family. Cynara's masters are devoid of scruples and would likely employ whatever means necessary to get to me."

"I take it that there have been no reprisals?" Simpson inquired.

Elizabeth's smooth brow furrowed. "No and this is not without its disturbing aspect. It is difficult to imagine that they might be willing to suffer my existence."

She just happened to notice the flicker of anxiety that crossed Contayza's face. "Dear, before I would allow anything to happen to my family, Satan himself would have to stake me in the sun."

Elizabeth's expression of grim determination allayed Tayza's fear if only marginally, but the trepidation did not vanish completely. Elizabeth doubted that a woman of her daughter-in-law's background could ever reach a full accommodation with a woman of her ilk. The Gypsy superstition was simply too deeply ingrained.

Nath averted his gaze to the floor, finding it easier to criticize his mother when not confronted directly by her beguiling beauty. "There was always the telephone. Not knowing what had happened to you was a torture."

Now it was Simpson who allowed her glance to slide elsewhere. There were so many things that she needed to tell him that the task seemed daunting. She realized that they had spent less than a week together in twenty-five years and this understanding filled her heart with a searing pain. There would come a day when her beautiful child would be gone and she would be forced to endure an eternity without him. "There is another reason that I stayed away, one that is more abstract. Before I could come to you, I had to undertake a journey of self-enlightenment. When Cynara turned me, she had no real concept of the forces she was tampering with. She was an exceedingly powerful demon, but not necessarily a prudent one. I was a prototype, you see. My loyalty was not to Satan, but to Cynara. I realize how difficult this must be to absorb."

Both Nathaniel and Contayza shook their heads, surprising Elizabeth somewhat. It was Tayza who recounted the tale of their encounter with the demon Gregory in the Carpathians. Elizabeth absorbed this thoughtfully. "That is well for now you grasp some of the mechanics of the process, perhaps more clearly than Cynara ever did."

"Why do you suppose she fixed on you?" Nath inquired his expression raw with torment. "Did she ever offer any sort of explanation?"

Elizabeth muttered a bitter chuckle. "Cynara was consumed, though not by avarice or hatred as you might expect, but by simple loneliness. She sought a companion to give her wretched existence some sense of meaning. Ultimately, Cynara was a pathetic creature, struggling desperately to stave off isolation and utter despair."

"How you must despise her?" Contayza remarked. Elizabeth glanced at her for a moment and then out at the night sky. "Surprisingly, I do not. I pity the existence she led, but harbor no hatred for her. Cynara loved me as much as a creature of her ilk is able. When faced with the prospect of destroying me, she elected to give up her own life in my stead. That she was even capable of such a sacrifice was astounding."

Nath could see that Contayza was clearly displeased with this response and groped for a way to avoid an eruption. To his wife, Cynara was the embodiment of all evil and she would not take kindly to any other view. "Why did you not end up being like her?" he asked, grasping at the first question that popped into his mind. "I mean you were never as evil as Cynara."

Elizabeth greeted this with laughter. "Again, that could be attributed to Cynara's miscalculation. It is frankly incredible how little she understood about her own nature and the mechanics of the process that created her. By turning me, she set out to achieve something that was technically impossible. What I mean to say is that she attempted to create a living paradox. You must understand the turning drastically augments the base and evil side of one's nature, while effectively eradicating the moral aspects of the subject's character. This is the part that is difficult to accept...even for me...Cynara sought a soul mate who was her spiritual antithesis. Essentially, she was seeking an individual who was unflaggingly moral and righteous. Somehow, and this is the part for which I have no explanation, I fit that bill."

"In her ignorance of the process, she failed to realize that there were no evil or wanton qualities to augment. My personality was subjugated and replaced by the cold, dispassionate creature that took Nathaniel in the forest near Chevru. That creature was devoid of feeling, but it was not inherently evil. Had Cynara decided not to pursue her conflict with Nathaniel and Jimmy, it is possible that the glacial Elizabeth might have lived for an eternity...along with Cynara. What neither realized was that my spirit had not been eradicated, but merely confined. When Cynara dispatched the demon Elizabeth to kill you, she inadvertently provided me with the strength to exorcise the demon. In the end, Saravic could not kill me and took her own life instead."

"But you still didn't know what you were, did you?" Tayza demanded, grasping some of the reasons why Simpson had remained absent for so long.

"Precisely. Before I could seek you out, I had to divine the true nature of my emancipated soul, to discover if I was good or evil. I spent five years attempting to understand the powers that were available to me, while seeking to come to terms with exactly what type of being I'd become."

"Mother, why would you ever have doubted yourself?" Nath murmured softly.

"Nathaniel, I've changed drastically from the woman I was in Semelar. My old life was governed by romantic ideals and passion. I have retained a few of the demon's traits, dispassionate reasoning being the foremost amongst them."

"And yet you are capable of emotions and tears," Nath countered.

"True, but I have done horrible things and while it was the demon that performed the deeds, I am not without guilt. I killed your father, Nathaniel."

Nath stiffened, and it occurred to him that he had lived thirty years of his life having no idea who his father might have been, other than a faceless name on a birth certificate. Stammering, he managed, "Why? When?"

"Cynara wanted me to do it and the demon Elizabeth complied. Daniel Wells was a shallow, meaningless man, but he did not merit the horrible death that he suffered."

Nathaniel stood up and walked to the patio doors while Elizabeth and Contayza exchanged glances. When he finally turned back to the pair, his face was wooden and inscrutable. "There is more to being a father than a name. I refuse to judge you for any of what has happened. You are my one true parent."

Elizabeth glanced at her hands, not wanting her son to see the glitter of tears that were beginning to well in her eyes. Contayza, sensing the other woman's anguish, suddenly leaned over and kissed Simpson on the cheek. Startled by the unexpected act of kindness, Simpson responded with a smile of near blinding magnitude. "You've asked me why I've come. Mostly, I've come to see if I could find the one thing that I crave the most...a normal life."

Abruptly, five years of restrained tears burst forth in an uncontrollable deluge. Tayza enfolded Elizabeth in her arms as her gaze shifted nervously to Nathaniel, who appeared rooted in his spot by the door. She gestured him forward with a curt nod, intimating the task of consoling Elizabeth should rightfully fall to her son.

"Mother," he stammered. "You know that you're welcome here."

Contayza automatically took up the thread of his assurance, though deep inside, she harbored her own misgivings about Elizabeth Simpson's presence and all that it implied. "Nath's right, Elizabeth. You will stay with us. If you like, we will help you settle here."

Elizabeth brushed absently at the tears that clung to her sooty lashes like diamonds. "If only it were that simple."

"It is," Nath protested, though his mother was already shaking her head. "No, Nath, one of the ways that I was able to conclude that I was truly uncorrupted by the transformation was the realization that I had inherited an obligation to set Cynara's acts of iniquity right. I have utilized a good portion of the estate's resources to undo much of her evil. One of her greatest acts of wickedness has yet to be undone and it is one in which I had a hand."

She lapsed into a prolonged silence as an expression of wistful melancholy stole over her lovely face like a brooding shadow. The silence drew itself out and it seemed that she would not elaborate, but she murmured softly, "Nathaniel, do you remember David Stillman?"

A slight raising of the eyebrows was his only reaction, but in his mind, pieces of a confusing puzzle began to assume a shape that was very nearly discernable. Cautiously, he offered, "I remember a man giving me piggy back rides, though I cannot be certain that these are real memories or fragments of something that I might have imagined."

"No, that memory is most definitely real," Elizabeth replied softly, her eyes turned inward on a time that she could scarcely remember, save for fragments of sepia images. "David was possibly the only man who truly loved me while I was a mortal. For a brief time, perhaps no more than a few weeks, it seemed that the three of us might become a family."

"That's how I remember the piggyback rides?" Nath asked and Simpson nodded. She sipped her tea thoughtfully and then remarked, "It is amazing how life can fall apart with such bewildering speed. One moment David was in my life, and the next Cynara had appeared like a dark sun. Her luster blinded me to everything. David attempted to warn me, but I denigrated him and drove him away. I was totally beguiled by Cynara and nothing could make me see what should have been glaringly obvious...beneath that beautiful, erudite façade, she was thoroughly wicked."

"Still, he tried to save you...along with the Israeli, though I forget his name."

"Neghev," Elizabeth remarked somberly. "You're right...they did try to save me though neither could have realized that it was too late."

"They both died then?" Nath inquired certain that his question was pointless. The notion of quarter was something to which Cynara Saravic did not subscribe. Thus, he was surprised when Elizabeth informed him that Cynara had indeed killed Neghev, but had devised a far more insidious fate for Stillman.

"Upon reflection, I came to understand that many of Cynara's actions were motivated by jealousy. She despised David because he had the audacity to love the one thing that she so desperately coveted. Cynara's great strength was her ability to divine her enemies' greatest weakness and turn it against them. In David's case, she used me...the thing that he loved above all else. David was unable to suffer the sight of what I had become. It broke his spirit and drove him to despair. Cynara shattered his mind and set him to wander aimlessly like a drunken itinerant. I have to find him and make amends for what Cynara and I have both done to him.

"So what do you intend to do?" Nath asked, realizing that she was going to leave again. "You're talking about searching for a man who has been lost for twenty five years. Mother that may well be impossible."

"Perhaps, but you must try to see the world from my perspective. I do not age, nor do my emotions or memories fade with the passage of time. If I cannot anneal my sense of misery and guilt in this matter, it will dog me eternally."

Still Nath shook his head, finding the entire concept incomprehensible. Elizabeth sighed. "I suppose it must be difficult to imagine such a notion and even more impossible to empathize with it. Nathaniel, you are my son - my flesh – and I would die for you without hesitation or regret. It is imperative that you believe that I am not abandoning you again. I cannot bear the guilt of living with the thought of David's suffering. For me, it would be akin to living an eternity with cancer while being denied the cold requiem of death."

Abruptly, she reached forward and grasped Nath's hand. A bolt of pure energy tore through his system, causing him to stiffen and his eyes to bulge. Tayza recoiled, leaping to her feet in horror as he inherent mistrust of Elizabeth returned in an instant. Through clenched teeth, Nath managed to convey that he was okay.

The room had suddenly assumed a super-heightened clarity. Every color was amplified to a near stellar brilliance. Nath could clearly hear his wife's heart beating. More amazing still, he could hear the unborn child's heart beating as it slumbered contentedly in Contayza's womb. In the next instant, he found himself being gently drawn from his own thoughts and into the esoteric mind of his mother. He correctly sensed that he had been led into an infinite universe of wonders...a place of endless possibilities that no human could ever hope to entertain. Yet, somewhere in this magnificent place, he could discern the discordant beat of a dark heart. In The next moment he was hurtling towards it, though not of his own volition. It radiated a cold, dark light that filled his being with a towering despair. Consuming him, it beat at the frontiers of his consciousness like an unstoppable juggernaut. Unable to endure any more, he cried out for surcease and the horrible vision was gone. He blinked and found that he was back in the confines of his own mind, again experiencing the world through the diminished capacity of normal human senses.

Contayza rushed to him and encircled him protectively, while glaring balefully at Elizabeth. "What have you done?"

Nath hushed her and rose unsteadily. "My god, is that how it feels for your kind to live?"

Elizabeth nodded. "This is why I am compelled to at least make an effort to find David."

Nath sighed and drew a tremulous breath. "When will you leave?"

Elizabeth smiled warmly, her eyes luminous with the love she felt for her son. "I will stay until the end of the week. After all, I have not seen my family for five years. There is much to discuss."

3

Contayza came awake deep in the heart of darkness, certain that something irreversibly terrible had come to pass. She glanced at the nightstand where the floating, luminescent numbers reminded her of watchful demon's eyes, informing her that it was a quarter past four. She turned over to find the vague, comforting outline of Nath as he slept on beside her. The prospect of returning to sleep was a vain one for she had come utterly and completely awake.

Frustrated, she climbed out of bed and was well on her way to the kitchen when she recalled that a new presence had invaded her home. ' _What a peculiar way of thinking of it_?' she chided herself, but still the sense that her world had been violated by Elizabeth's return continued to smolder like a grass fire.

Quietly, she made her way down the stairs and without really intending to, found herself standing at the doorway to the front parlor. Elizabeth sat curled in Nath's bay window seat. Even in the darkness, Simpson appeared to be swathed in light. Watching her, Contayza was struck by the impression that this was a creature that was larger than life...an aloof beauty that was somehow tragic in her reticence.

"Come and sit with me awhile, Contayza," Elizabeth called softly, never taking her eyes from the empty street. Tayza was at first startled, but quickly recovered and drifted over to her mother-in-law, who patted a cushion. Contayza complied and the two of them gazed wordlessly into the night for several moments. Finally, it occurred to Tayza to ask, "Have you no need of sleep, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "No. There are times when I close my eyes simply to stop the flood of images, but true sleep is not required." After another protracted silence, she remarked, "I know how disruptive my coming must be for you."

Tayza glanced at her hands. "No, it's only..."

"You need never hide your feelings from me, Contayza," Elizabeth interrupted. "It is both pointless and unnecessary. Had the positions been reversed, I would feel precisely the same. I truly love my son, but I will never be a burden to either of you. If you wish, I will leave here and never come back, content in the knowledge that he has you...and soon a wonderful daughter."

Elizabeth stopped and returned her gaze to the street. Tayza knew that she was being sincere and the selflessness of Simpson's promise astounded her. The thought made her feel spiteful and cruel...a selfish bitch who was insensitive to the torment of the woman who had saved her life and was largely responsible for creating the life that Contayza was trying to protect. Still, a cold, impassive part of her beseeched Contayza to demand payment on that promise, but she angrily pushed the voice aside. Abruptly, the earlier roles reversed themselves and she began to cry, while Elizabeth moved to console her. "I'm so sorry Elizabeth, my behavior of late has been deplorable and being surprised at your arrival is hardly an excuse. I look at you and I see Cynara and that's possibly the worst injustice that I can do you."

Elizabeth kissed the top of Tayza's head and rocked her as though she were a grieving child. In that moment, Tayza was suffused by a wave of wellbeing and contentment unlike anything that she had ever experienced. "Don't fret, you're misgivings are only natural. I owe you a debt of gratitude that I may never be able to repay. You have given my son what I could not...a requiem of love and normalcy. I hope that the day may come when you and I may be friends and you may come to perceive me as one who may love and be loved, not feared or despised."

Contayza's sense of shame grew, but Elizabeth brushed it back with a series of tender kisses. Still in Elizabeth's embrace, Tayza felt herself growing drowsy. Suddenly, Simpson grew as rigid as a piece of statuary. Contayza jerked back as the other woman's flesh had grown as cold as a January wind. Elizabeth's eyes were wide with confusion and something that might have been stark terror. Tayza gazed about uneasily, not certain what to do. She was about to run and wake Nath, when a hand clamped down upon her wrist like a manacle. Elizabeth's eyes met and held Contayza's, who found that she was capable of neither speech nor movement.

As suddenly as it had begun, Elizabeth's rigor passed and she slumped back to the cushion, her breathing coming in ragged gasps.

Tayza knelt beside her." What's wrong, Elizabeth...are you ill?"

Elizabeth uttered a papery laugh at the improbability of the suggestion. "I wish that it was something so benign." She replied shakily and after a moment, added, "I believe I'm going mad."

Chapter Four

1

Stu Macevey sat patiently in the outer offices of the Seattle Marshall Law Authority, awaiting his scheduled appointment with the Sectional Commander, Franklin Lawland. In the past three days, there had been four further derelict immolations, bringing the total to an alarming nine. In crime-ridden America, this episodic violence was beginning to attract national attention. With no small amount of dismay, Macevey had noticed the flood of network vans and cars that had converged upon the abandoned zone like flocking vultures. Stu could nearly quote verbatim the indignant editorials castigating the city of Seattle for allowing such barbarism to go unchecked, just as he knew the network executives craved such stories as a junky craved heroin. Just this once, the publicity might prove beneficial.

Had America's refusal to confront the horror of its decay finally reached a limit? Macevey fervently hoped so. He had experienced a slight glimmer of hope when his precinct Commander had given him permission to take the matter down town.

The receptionist marched purposefully into the reception area to inform him that Lawland would see him now.

"Fifteen minutes, Lt. Macevey," she reminded him sternly, her cold blue eyes flickering over him with a baffling hint of distaste, as though she was somehow offended by his presence. "The Commander has a full slate of appointments. Please respect you allotted time limit."

Macevey frowned, wanting desperately to tell this officious bitch exactly what she could do with her allotted time limit. A sense of priority prevailed and he nodded dutifully. If Lawland wasn't receptive to his proposal, fifteen years wouldn't make a difference.

Macevey was ushered into the dimly lit interior of the Sectional commander's private office and at once he felt his spirit sag. The interior, with its Italian leather sofas, rich teak and marble side table and desk, was the office of a politician, not a hardcore cop. It spoke of a man who would not take risks to jeopardize all that he had accrued.

"Come and sit, Lt. Macevey," a voice called as Stuart's eyes adjusted to the fashionable gloom. He ventured forward, hoping that he would not embarrass himself by stumbling over the scattering of ornate tables. He made it to the proffered wingback without incident and threw himself in.

Franklin Lawland was a youthful fifty, razor lean with a ramrod posture. His ice blue eyes were glacial and impassive as he gazed down at the text of what Macevey recognized to be a personnel file. After a moment, he stiffened, his disconcerting gaze shifting directly onto Stuart. "An admirable service record, Lt. Macevey."

Not certain how to respond, Stuart merely nodded. Looking back down at the file, Lawland inquired, "Do you understand the fundamental reasoning behind establishing the abandoned zones?"

"I understand the stated reasons, but I must confess that I've never concurred with them."

Franklin nodded curtly. "Well yes, I'm sure that there are many Law Enforcement Officers who share you concerns. Still, the public sees these zones as a way of confining the criminal elements. A trade off, if you will...an area where the riff-raff operate unhindered while leaving the respectable citizens alone."

Stuart started to object, but Lawland raised his hand. "You and I both know that the theory is totally flawed. Safe within the zones, the gangs grow more powerful and more audacious. Gradually, they push the boundaries of their little empires and the zones grow like a cancer."

Macevey stared at Lawland in horrified disbelief. "You realize the futility of this system and yet still oversee its implementation day after day?"

Stu was cognizant of the severity of the criticism the moment that it had left his mouth, but being powerless to call it back, he said nothing to attenuate it. Lawland regarded him expressionlessly for several seconds and then buzzed his assistant and instructed her to cancel his next three appointments."

"Yes Commander Lawland." Stuart thought that he could hear the disdain beneath the tone of professional courtesy and made a mental note to sprint through the reception area once the interview was over. Franklin leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desktop, still managing to appear severe as a piece of statuary. "Let's be candid, Lt. Macevey, America is slowly dying. I'm not certain if the villain is indifference, resignation or simple fear, but the foundation of this society crumbling brick by brick everyday. The politicians are trying to sell the notion that these damnable abandoned zones are the best method of arresting crime. The concept is similar to Nixon's Viet Nam peace with honor...an acceptable euphemism for covering our asses and giving up. Nonetheless, the concept is popular because, superficially at least, it appears to work. The crime rate is down in the outer suburbs and since that is where the respectable citizens live, that is all that really matters. Every year the abandoned zones expand and new ones pop in towns and cities all across America."

Macevey shook his head in disgust, dwarfed by the thought that people could be so easily blinded. "Do people actually believe that the zone scum will ever be satisfied? They'll keep pushing until they control everything. Soon we'll be abandoning entire cities."

"Precisely my point, Lt. Macevey. You see, some processes may not be reversed, but they may be slowed...possibly even driven into remission. It's amazing how the cancer analogy keeps cropping up when discussing these areas. This is basically how I perceive my function...to hold the line and slow down the expansion to a virtual crawl." Lawland concluded.

"Nonetheless, the result is the same, only delayed," Stu pointed out.

"Sadly true," Lawland admitted. "Still, I am reluctant to order an incursion into the abandoned zone because it might prove highly disruptive. Many powerful and otherwise intelligent people believe that the concept is the only way to save our country from rampant crime. Beyond this there exists a more cynical core who maintain that these zones might rectify all of the problems which have led us to this sorry state in the first place. They see the zones as a panacea the way that the ancients saw leeches as a curative against blood diseases."

Stuart shook his head, not following the thread of the other man's logic. Lawland unlocked one of his desk drawers and withdrew a laminated map which he carefully laid before Macevey in the manner of one conveying something both dangerous and foul. "This might clarify what I'm trying to say."

The map depicted the abandoned zone in baleful black squares that resembled a blight. All about the abandoned zone, a black line stretched ominously from sea to sea. Distantly, he heard himself ask, "What does this line represent?"

The normally impassive Lawland grimaced with distaste. "This is the vision that our local government holds for the expansion of Seattle's zone. The line represents the actual wall that is to be constructed with the purpose of holding our ' _enemies_ ' within."

Stuart gaped at Lawland, openly mortified. "They can't be serious?"

Lawland spread his arms. "It has already been secretly submitted to the state and federal authorities for approval, many of whom consider it a visionary law enforcement concept."

"Good Christ! What about the people who live there?"

"Ah, there is the rub. Those who can relocate, will. Those who cannot are breeding grounds for the criminals and are best left on the other side of the wall."

Macevey ran his fingers through his hair. "That's more than crazy. It's absolutely fucking depraved."

"Absolutely," Lawland agreed, "but in the not-too-distant future we will see walled abandoned zones policed by heavily armed troops."

For a long moment, Stuart was utterly incapable of speech, so monumental was his rage. Lawland uttered a humorless laughter and then remarked dryly, "Not exactly the America that our forefathers imagined, is it?"

Finally, Macevey managed to overcome his initial revulsion. "That would be more destructive than the gangs could ever hope to be."

"Yes, it would," Franklin concurred. "Now, perhaps you'll share just what it is that you propose." So Macevey did, systematically and dispassionately laying out his plan for stopping the killings and reclaiming the abandoned zone in Seattle. Lawland listened in thoughtful silence, hiding his reaction behind a mask of professional impassivity. When Stuart had finished his presentation, he sat waiting for Franklin's judgment, while not harboring much hope. The section chief removed his wire-rimmed glasses and pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose. "What you are proposing is political suicide to whoever might endorse it, Lt. Macevey."

Stuart felt his spirit sag as Lawland continued, "What's more, the special interest groups will lobby a claim of racial persecution."

"We both know that the claim is bullshit," Stuart muttered dismally.

"Indeed. And so do the lobbyists for that matter, which doesn't make their efforts seem any less effective." At this, Macevey felt certain that he had squandered his time, and thus he was rather shocked when Lawland came to stand beside him and fixed him with an apprising gaze. "Let me tell you something, Lt...something that might come as a bit of a surprise, given who I am and what I've vowed to protect. I've always been a student of our fine profession, ardently studying the careers and exploits of America's greatest lawmen. The man whom I have come to admire the most is Elliot Ness. Certain similarities could be drawn between Ness' travails and the situation in which we now find ourselves. Wouldn't you agree?"

Macevey, who would have sworn that Ness had been a fictitious police detective from the early Twentieth century, merely nodded.

"You see, many believed that Ness was a foolish upstart for daring to tamper with the powerful Italian crime syndicates of the era. Since many of the police officials of the day were thoroughly corrupt, the desire to see the likes of Al Capone torn down was not particularly great. There were many who regarded Ness as a greater evil than Capone. Still, Ness persisted and helped to topple on of the greatest crime empires of the era. As egocentric as it will seem, I have always hoped that a situation might present itself that would establish Franklin Lawland as the Elliot Ness of the 21st century. I believe that this hope has just been fulfilled." Macevey blinked and Lawland offered him a genuinely warm smile.

As though distrusting his own ears and needing confirmation, Stuart asked, "You're saying that you'll okay this?"

"Egocentric fancy aside, I feel obligated to do something and as blackly selfish as this might sound, this series of reprehensible crimes just might prove to be a God send, though I doubt that you could ever convince your good friend, Wayman Carcavice, of as much."

"You know Carcavice?" Stuart asked, now thoroughly astounded. Lawland simply offered Macevey a partial grin and carried on. "I have to endorse your plan because, by failing to act, we perpetuate two evils: the burnings and this."

He pounded his fist down upon the map of the projected abandoned zone. Stuart gazed at the laminated depiction of evil and abandonment, hearing himself stammer. "What comes next?"

Lawland slipped back into his seat. "I have to present it to a select group with the authority to impose the plan as an emergency measure. I'm going to implore my superiors to act with haste because the other side will no doubt see the burnings as a catalyst to ram their own agenda through."

"How long?" Macevey persisted. Lawland seemed to consider the question and then replied "Hopefully no more than a week. I can even begin organizing the required manpower."

"What can I do?"

"For the time being, nothing. Return to your precinct and carry on with the cursory investigation. If asked, let it be known that your proposal received a chilly reception down town." With this advice, Lawland rose and extended his hand, signaling that the interview was at an end. At the door, Macevey paused and remarked "It's almost as though I was proposing the invasion of another country."

Franklin's steely-eyed gaze flicked up to Macevey. "You are, Lt...an invasion of Hell."

2

At the center of Franklin Lawland's earthly version of Hell, a single derelict shuffled down a garbage-strewn alley. The detritus of a dying society lay ankle-deep in the concrete gutters. On either side of the lane, the decaying husks of what had once been viable enterprises stood to the sky like enormous corpses moldering in the listless sunlight.

Unlike many of the other sorry occupants of the Zone, this man's face reflected no sign of the systematic poisoning of addiction. Though his long hair was colored in the varying shades of gray, there was a contradictory youthfulness about his face that made it difficult to accurately gage his age. This man was known to the other residents as one of the long time zone dwellers, having had been there as long as anyone could remember. In truth, he had shambled along these streets long before abandoned zones had become a part of the modern American parlance. Though he had survived over two decades on the streets in an unforgiving concrete badland, the other homeless had a tendency to stay away from the derelict. There was something alarming about the loner...an aura that spoke of subtle, abstract menace. If one would approach the man, they would suddenly feel an electric tension stealing along the length of their spine and the need to be out of his presence would be maddening.

When on the few occasions that a fellow derelict would find the courage to ignore the sense of compelling anxiety and would attempt to speak to the derelict, he would reply in a barely coherent murmur. The consensus on the street was that this particular derelict had been touched by the demon of madness, though none of those rendering that judgment could have guessed how close to the truth they actually were. Even the roving gangs left this particular derelict alone, though normally the homeless were fodder for all manner of predatory amusement.

The solitary derelict stopped at an intersection and turned his cloudy gaze to the mid-morning sky that was threatening showers. In another lifetime, this man had been a person of some note, though what he might have been he could not say for certain. This impression was one of instinct and not memory. A damp wind eddied suddenly, invading the hollows of his threadbare overcoat, causing the man to shiver. He lowered his head against the breeze and continued on his way.

He had experienced many things during his exile in this Hellish wasteland, watching the Ocean district deteriorate like a body ravaged by cancer. In truth, he was cognizant of very little, but a controlling instinct had allowed him to adapt and thus survive the area's rapid descent into chaos. For the first two decades of his exile, time had passed in a fog-veiled blur. Though he had survived these two decades of indigence, he could recall nothing of their substance, nor could he recall the years that preceded them. During this time he had functioned as a mindless machine whose only purpose was survival.

He could not recall specifically when, but some years ago (five...his mind conjured this number, but from where exactly, he could not say) things had begun to change. Brief periods of lucidity, some only minutes in length, had broken the constancy of vacuous subsistence. Gradually, these periods grew more protracted as the derelict became cognizant of his environment.

Years passed and he came to grasp the abject misery of his existence and the wretchedness of the immediate world. At first, he would seek refuge in the mists of disconnection, but in the last year even that cold requiem was lost to him. Clarity forced the derelict to confront the harsh world in which he lived. Its salient realities were terrifying. Savage gangs roamed the streets, preying upon men and women, such as himself, with a rapacious glee. It was shocking to discover that the police had deserted this area, leaving the defenseless people to survive as best they could. He was further dismayed to learn that this atrocity had been designed and implemented by the government.

When the derelict attempted to recall the circumstances that had plunged him into this lonely, wretched existence, he found that he could not. His past life (if, indeed, he had ever possessed such a thing) was shrouded in a perplexing and impenetrable fog. Instinct admonished him that there was something ineffably horrible lurking there...something gargantuan and darkly fantastic. His best efforts to unravel the mystery of his lost life were met with frustration and so he remained a nameless derelict, devoid of identity.

He recalled the one occasion when he had attempted to leave this desolate hell. His legs had carried him to the place where he could see signs of normal activity. The buildings, though old, were not decrepit and the people were not afflicted by despair, madness or malevolence. Yet, when he had started to cross the stretch of asphalt and concrete, the derelict had been consumed by a sense of dread so profound that he had turned and fled back into the heart of the zone. Several further attempts had been met with similar baffling failures. It was almost as though an invisible, yet inviolable barrier had been erected around the wretched place...one that would restrain only him.

The derelict had grown resigned to the fact that, as horrid as this place might be, it was his home. Through twenty-five years, he had honed an instinct that had kept him safe, if not totally isolated. He learned where a man might pass a cold and rainy night. He even managed to stumble upon a place where the city had forgotten to disconnect the hot water supply, thus assuring that he would remain clean, and thus relatively healthy. He had not shared these secrets, prudently reasoning that trust would be fatal in this kingdom of the damned.

Eventually he had come to impart a certain measure of trust to one man and that man had been Wayman Carcavice. Carcavice's earnest concern had penetrated the derelict's reticence. Gradually, he had come to see the mission as a safe haven where he could temporarily escape the grim rigors of street life.

The derelict emerged from an alleyway directly across from the squat building that stood as a beacon of civility in a sea of indifference. Wayman sat in his worn rocker by the main doors; a pump action shotgun perched next to him. When he noticed the derelict, Wayman motioned the man over. For Carcavice, this fellow held a strange fascination. This man was clearly intelligent and not a slave to the addictions that plagued so many of the zones other inhabitants. It was difficult to imagine why this one had ended up in this backwater of humanity. Still, when Wayman glanced into the other man's relatively clear eyes, he was confronted by a vast and unsettling emptiness. On many occasions, Wayman had tried to subtly pry the man's story out into the light of day. These casual inquiries had been met with a baffled expression which suggested that the derelict simply could not provide any answer.

Today, however, it was Wayman's turn to appear distracted. The derelict perceived the keeper's preoccupation and inquired, "You seem troubled, Wayman?"

The black man cast an uncharacteristically sour glance at the derelict and then returned his attention to the street, which was as silent as an October graveyard. "These are evil times that we live in, my man," he declared grimly, "and they are only going to get worse."

The derelict nodded his solemn concurrence, not sure if Wayman's pessimism had specific cause or was the result of accrued despair. Abruptly, Wayman turned back to the other man, his eyes widening in amazement. "You have no idea what's been happening in the last week, have you?"

The derelict spread his arms to convey his ignorance. Wayman shook his head and explained "Some evil fuckers have been burning homeless people alive. Nine, in all."

The derelict stood on the porch with his mouth agape. Indeed, how could a civilized human being respond to the news of such savagery? Finally, he stammered, "What's being done?"

Carcavice shook his head in utter disgust. "Nothing!"

The man blinked and shifted his gaze to the blank sky, feeling sure that the keeper was mistaken. No authority could allow such horror to go unnoticed. Yet, one need only look into Wayman's haunted face to know that he had uttered the truth. "Look, my man. I'm only telling you what I've been told and what I'm passing on to everyone who can be reached. Keep your head down and your ears open. This jungle's got a new monster and it's hungry, so stay low, especially at night. I'm encouraging everyone to stick together and stick close to the shelter."

"Wayman, people can't go on living here under these circumstances. We're like unprotected sheep in a den of wolves."

Wayman frowned and regarded the man quizzically. "You know, you don't talk like a bum."

The derelict smiled and Carcavice remarked, "Some good hearted soul downtown turned over twenty dozen muffins and thirty loaves of bread. They're a bit chewy, but it's something. Why don't you go in and indulge. Remember, stick close, my man."

The derelict thanked the keeper and was moving toward the door, when an unmarked police cruiser turned the corner in a squeal of tires, gliding to a stop directly before the mission. Macevey climbed out and his gaze happened upon the youthful derelict with the unusually limpid eyes. For a brief instant, a current of empathy passed between the two men, leaving both with the sense that this chance encounter was somehow providential. Then the policeman shook his head and the moment vanished. The derelict disappeared inside the building and the officer hurried over to Wayman.

"What tidings of joy do you have for me today, Lieutenant?" Carcavice asked, in a tone tight with sarcasm.

Stu regarded the man warily. "More than you might think."

"Really? Do tell." An arched eyebrow signified Wayman's sudden interest. Macevey recounted the highlights of his meeting with Lawland. The keeper considered this in silence for several moments and then inquired "If this thing is approved, how long will it take to put it together?"

"If Lawland keeps his promise to secure manpower as he goes, two weeks."

Wayman winced, knowing that there could be a significant accumulation of corpses in two weeks. "If this Lawland can't produce, what then?"

Now it was Macevey's turn to grimace. He had deliberately neglected to mention plans for the expansion of the abandoned zone as though it was an evil too vile to even relate. "We can't even think about that, Wayman. Lawland's got to come through and that's it. There's more riding on this than either of us can begin to imagine."

Carcavice pursed his lips, but remained silent. Faith that the ' _good thing_ ' must inevitably come to pass had long ago been purged from his soul. Finally, he remarked, "We're sitting right in the middle of a tinderbox here, Macevey."

"I know it, Wayman," Stuart agreed, though neither could have suspected the proximity and magnitude of the explosion that was rapidly descending upon them.

3

**Vermont.** On the same night that Elizabeth Simpson made her surprising re-entry into her son's life, a sultry wind, fraught with esoteric implications, blew through the New England states. The night was preternatural in its sharpness as Artemis reached the monthly zenith of her power, turning her silver countenance on the world in all its celestial splendor.

Though most in the woe-ridden world were oblivious to her beauty, one small group greeted her return to splendor in a frenzy of exhortation and keen anticipation.

The clearing was perfectly circular and precise in its diameter. Another circular pit, twenty meters across and lined with stone, had been dug into the exact center of this clearing.

Two hundred Wiccans of the New Order of the Silver Goddess rimmed the perimeter of the inner circle. All, save one, were adorned in rough-spun cotton robes. At the head of the circle, a tall figure, attired in a robe of silver silk and a polished wooden mask of the Lunar Goddess, Artemis, stood with her head bowed, solemnly awaiting the subtle sign of commencement.

The wind gusted suddenly in a lilting rush that might well have been the melodious cooing of a cherub. The tall figure abruptly raised her head and lifted her arms and face to the Goddess.

"Artemis, be praised," she cried and the others followed her lead, repeating her salutation to their ancient deity.

"Receive our abject pleas and see us in all our worldly imperfections."

The interior circle erupted with orange and red flames, lapping at the heavens like blind, lustful tongues. The Wiccans retreated a step from the intense heat and in unison shrugged free of their loose robes, revealing two hundred female bodies of every conceivable size, shape and age.

Brandishing her arms towards the heavens in a gesture of entreaty, the tall figure began to pray.

Artemis, purveyor of the silver light

Share with us your wisdom and vision.

Favor us with your guidance, though we are unworthy of your purity.

The monologue of praise continued as the priestess of Wicca paid homage to her ancient Goddess. Above them, the distant stars twinkled like crown jewels. When Artemis had been afforded her proper respect and promised eternal fealty, the tall figure lowered her arms and the two hundred women joined hands to form a continuous circle about the flaming altar.

Again, the coven leader began to speak, though now her tone conveyed something of her sense of urgency and desperation.

Artemis, I humbly beseech thee,

Hear those who have pledged fealty and service.

You, who command the creatures of the earth and the movement of the seas,

Guide us through the vile fog that has polluted your realm

Fortify us against the enemies who seek our obliteration.

Give us the strength and courage

That we might persevere and

Continue to undertake your will

For our love is undying and our

Devotion is without limit.

With this, the human circle began to move to the right in the direction of positive magic known as deasil. Though some were old and infirmed, all were this night invested with an alien grace, moving lithely in syncopation with the swelling and guttering of the flames. The human representation of Artemis continued to pray, her exigent words being borne upward on a current of warm wind.

Give us your guidance, oh gentle Goddess

Illuminate our path so that we might

Vanquish the despoilers.

Reveal to us your momentous will

So that we might strive to serve it with our life blood.

Let this sacred pyre be your emissary.

Movement ceased as the priestess returned to her original position at the head of the circle. The Wiccans on either side of the priestess promptly bent down and retrieved two ornate daggers. The gleaming aspect of the moon goddess had been embossed on the haft of each dagger. The priestess extended her hands to each woman with her palms turned to face the silver visage of the Goddess as she gazed down upon the ceremony from her lofty perspective. The two Wiccans immediately positioned their weapons above each outstretched palm, the deadly tips poised to strike.

Infuse us with your love

Reward our unconditional faith, oh hallowed one

Suffuse our humble spirits with your light

Enfold us in the warding embrace of your might

In all humility, I implore you to reveal the tenants of your will.

Then her voice rose to a reverberating roar and she concluded dramatically,

My servant's blood for you!

Deftly and without hesitation, the Wiccans drew the flashing blades across the open palms. Blood, glistening darkly in the moonlight, poured copiously forth as the wounding drew an intense hiss of pain from the tall woman. With only the slightest of hesitation, the priestess of Artemis thrust her bleeding hands into the ceremonial pyre of invocation.

The priestess laid back her head and sang a litany of agony to her mistress. For a long, tense moment, it seemed that her torment had been in vain. Then, like an enormous engine cycling up to maximum power, the flames exploded into a ball that leapt a full thirty feet into the night sky.

Terrified, many of the Wiccans broke the circle and stumbled away from the towering pillar of flame. The women nearest the priestess encircled the tall woman's waist and pulled her clear, the three tumbling to the ground in a rather lascivious sprawl.

Momentarily stunned by the searing pain and the pandemonium around her, the priestess quickly regained her senses and wrestled free of her assistants.

"Reform the circle or all will be for naught!" she shrieked, imploring the adepts not to succumb to their fear. Even she had been startled by the unexpected violence of the response, but her anticipation of what was to come managed to surmount her trepidation. As she gazed at the pyre, the dancing flames began to burn hotter, finally reaching an argent brilliance that was virtually blinding.

"Speak to us, Mother!" she cried, her voice strident and cracked above the hiss and roar of the flames.

"Look!" one of the Wiccans bellowed, throwing her mask aside in a state of near-panic. "Artemis comes."

Indeed, it seemed so for the moon appeared to swell until its girth appeared to encompass the heavens. Utter panic seized many of the novices then and they fled blindly into the surrounding forest, their howls of inchoate dread marking their flight.

The priestess knelt, riveted to the grass, her eyes fixed upon the behemoth of a moon. ' _We've truly drawn down the moon_ ,' she thought and uttered a cackling laughter. True, one could draw forth the powers of the moon, wisdom and insight, but this was the stuff of dementia and hysteria.

She might well have bolted herself had not the face of the moon began to shift. The transformation continued until a discernable face had materialized on the silver surface.

It was a face of such divinity and beauty that the priestess first thought she was gazing upon the true countenance of Artemis.

Then a voice that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere abruptly disabused her of this notion. Its timber was deep and reverberating...not at all what the priestess would have expected. "Your supplication has not fallen upon ears of stone, you my most humble and devoted of servants. Behold the face of my emissary and mark it well. Seek her out and she shall ward you against the dark infidels who even now gather against you and conspire to destroy you."

Mesmerized, the priestess stared at the shimmering visage of the proclaimed savior until her eyes grew heavy and peaceful slumber drew her down into nothingness.

As she passed into the realm of dark water, the priestess smiled in contentment, knowing that Artemis would favor her children.

4

**Atlanta, Georgia.** Five men had assembled for the monthly meeting of the church elders. The meetings were routine and had been held without fail every month since the Christian Revisionist Church had been founded by Gregor Ingram some twelve years before. On these occasions, Ingram and his four senior advisors conferred on church doctrine and its practical applications, management of the church's growing holdings and the forging of the future direction the church would follow.

On this night, there was an air of palpable tension hovering about the small group, for Ingram had promised to divulge the details of what he grandiosely referred to as his ' _vision for the New America_ '. Elder Larry Walker had winced upon first hearing the term, his anxiety multiplying geometrically when Ingram had revealed that this vision had first been conveyed to him by a talking statue of Jesus.

Walker, who succeeded in concealing his ingrained cynicism, correctly saw Gregor's sudden ' _vision_ ' as the nascent stirring of madness. If the church founder slipped into the realm of the demented, he would drag a massive financial empire along with him. Walker viewed the church as a potentially endless source of wealth and security and shuddered to think what might happen if old Gregor surrendered his rather tenuous grip on sanity.

It occurred to Larry that it might become necessary to impeach the good founder should his vision prove too absurd to be palatable to his flock. Walker had considered approaching the other elders so that they might plan for that contingency, but decided to wait, reasoning that Ingram's plan would probably prove to be nothing but benign theological fantasy. In truth, many of the followers seemed willing to open their wallets to a little theological absurdity. It was not unthinkable to hope that this ' _vision_ ' might prove harmless, while bolstering the church's already laden coffers.

As events would unfold, Larry Walker assessment of things couldn't have proven any more wrong.

Gregor Ingram emerged from his private study very much like a Roman Emperor embarking on a victory procession. His bald pate gleamed brightly beneath the crystal chandelier that hung over the central conference table. His hawkish features and perpetual expression of disdain gave him the air of a petulant troll. He glided to his seat at the head of the mahogany table and gesture for the elders to sit. The others looked on curiously as he placed a lacquered box on the table directly before him.

Walker and Emon Drury exchanged quizzical glances, but remained silent. Ingram's eyes were flinty and inscrutable as his gaze shifted from one elder to the next, before settling squarely upon Walker. A subtle smile touched Ingram's thin lips, causing the elder to shiver. ' _This man is completely and hopelessly crazy_ ,' he realized at once, but could not discern the exact nature of the madness that had afflicted the founder.

Gregor tugged at the collar of his silk shirt, a habitual gesture that gave one the impression that Ingram was suffocating. Then he leaned forward and propping his elbows on the glossy table, declared, "Gentleman, the Lord has favored me with a revelation of wonder. He has bid me to share it with my flock. You, as my chosen, shall be the first to learn of the glorious future that we shall bring to be."

On the night that Ingram shared his ' _Vision for the New America_ ' with his inner circle; the Christian Revisionist Church could boast assets, both fixed and liquid, in excess of four billion dollars. Ingram's personal home displayed the unabashed opulence of a Roman Emperor's palace.

Things had not always been thus for Gregor, whose roots were found in the bewildering indigence of rural Arkansas. As a boy, Ingram had been raised in a house without the luxury of indoor plumbing, where the only love to be found was the hard, unforgiving love of the Old Testament.

Landers Ingram, a dour, ill-tempered fundamentalist, had not so much imparted his beliefs into Gregor as he had beaten them into him. Gregor had been raised during the fall of the televangelists, a dark and ignoble period for Landers and by extension, the rest of the Ingram family. Old Landers had subjected the family to endless harangues about the evils of mammon, inculcating in Gregor the fanatical desire to be obscenely rich, if only to spite the miserable old bastard.

Thus Ingram had grown in an environment of abject poverty, further burdened by Landers own dreary brand of religion. At seventeen, Gregor had fled Landers and Arkansas with the intention of pursuing a life of debauchery that would make the most wanton of whores blush. To his startled dismay, Gregor came to discover that Landers had been successful in imparting some of his dour Puritanism in to his son. He found himself repulsed by the tawdriness of the life he had once found to be so attractive.

Succumbing to the need for some form of spiritualism, Gregor had settled into Memphis and had found work selling cheap religious artifacts and bibles for one of the popular televangelists of the period. At first, the unadulterated sham of his new vocation disgusted Ingram as did the gaudy displays of wealth that surround the man. Gregor realized that the man was more closely comparable to a Carney pitchman than a spiritual leader.

It should have ended there but Gregor did not divorce himself from the world of religious fakery. Somewhere along the way had come the inevitable moment of uncoupling from his moral foundation and from that point forth, Gregor had plunged into the murky waters of the spiritually bankrupt.

Gregor had mapped a brilliant and meticulous path to the pinnacle of North American religion that had culminated in the foundation his Revisionist Christian Ministry. In doing so, he had accrued a circle of sycophants, all of whom shared the same devious understanding of how religious zeal could translate into scandalous mountains of cash.

If anything was true of Gregor Ingram it was that he thoroughly understood his followers. They were often poor, offended by the indignity of their poverty and above all else...white. Gregor had structured his religion to appeal specifically to the fears and prejudices of this group. With the zeal of a holy warrior, he had opposed homosexuality, abortion and assisted suicide, while insisting that the shameless liberals of the west would find their just rewards in the fires of hell.

The order had generated a lurid amount of money, allowing Gregor and his elders to live like kings. Then something had gone horribly awry...Ingram had begun to believe his own inflammatory rhetoric.

Gregor began to divulge the details of his vision by telling his elders, "Gentlemen, America is dying. The signs of God's displeasure are everywhere for he sees that the blood of this nation has been corrupted. The words of the prophets raining from pulpits like acid will not be enough to purge the evil that has eroded our souls."

Walker gazed uncomfortably down at his manicured hands, already considering what he might do when the wheels came off the wagon.

"The time for words is past," Gregor continued, his eyes alight with a strange fire. "In his infinite wisdom, God has turned to us to set the rooms of his earthly mansion in order. This country has walked out from under the face of God and we will be the ones to lead it back."

Gregor rose to his feet and began to pace around the table as though his vision had filled him with a boundless energy that he could not contain. "You might ask why we have been so honored. We have seen the enemy in its every guise and we do not quail before it."

Emon Drury winced, raising a hand to his mouth to conceal the frown that had bloomed there.

"We are a nation under siege," Ingram declared, his forehead now slick with perspiration. "All of the traditional beliefs that were once the cornerstones of this country are being chipped away by the disciples of chaos and darkness. Violence is drowning our humanity like a raging flood. Sexual perversity is a thing to be lauded...not abhorred. Why? Because we have grown complacent and tolerant of everything, no matter how perverse or abominable. Those who struggle to stem the tide are vilified and subjected to shameless ridicule. His words of warning have fallen upon deaf and disdainful ears."

Ingram abruptly leaned forward and slammed his fist upon the table, causing his four elders to jump.

"God has expressed his displeasure to me and we know that his wrath is terrible to behold. As of today, we are no longer spiritualists...we are warriors. Our task will be to stamp evil into the very dust from which it sprang."

His voice dropped to a stage whisper then as though he was about to share a profound secret. The elders were forced to lean forward just to hear this wondrous revelation. "Again, the age old evil has reared its ugly head. The followers of the Pagan gods have returned to sow their seeds of ruin in the soil of this country's dark heart. The Lord has told me that the old goddess has sent forth a prophet to lead these miscreants. She is called the golden witch and he has exposed her face to me. It is a visage that terrifies me, but almighty God has promised that I will find the courage to fight it."

With this, Gregor slumped back into his chair, his eyes peering into the swirling mists of his great vision. Gathering himself, Walker drew a deep breath and rose, glancing uncertainly at the others. "Gregor, what do you propose to do? There are more...pragmatic topics that have to be addressed tonight. The school expansion tenders must be considered and the foreign missions are clamoring for more funding."

Gregor regarded his elder distantly; a flinty glaze sliding down over his eyes like a drawn shade. "The missions will be closed at once and the staff recalled. We must cleanse our own house before concerning ourselves with the plight of others."

Walker blinked, staggered by the prospect of willingly squandering such lucrative ventures. "Good Lord man, do you know what you're suggesting?"

Ingram sprang to his feet, his hands settling on the wooden box set before him. "I know precisely what I'm suggesting," he screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "It is you who have lost sight of the God you serve...not me!"

Walker dropped his eyes, terrified by the extent and rapidity of the man's mental decline. At the end of the table, Ingram continued to rant, "Do you dare supplant his will with your own? The Golden Witch has been dispatched to lay waste to this land and we have been given the task to oppose her with cross and hammer."

"How exactly do we do that, Gregor?" Walker inquired in a tremulous voice, hoping that Ingram's response would prompt the elders into taking the required action. Gregor smiled, thinking that his elder had perhaps grasped the error of his ways. "This weekend, I will go before the nation and share the Lord's vision. I will expose our enemy and bring to light their vile purpose."

The thought of such folly induced a wave of nausea in Walker that rolled over the elder and set him to shake perceptibly. A broadcast decrying the followers of the Golden Witch would reduce the order to a crude joke and effectively bring about its end as a viable religious force. Yet, even this madness would prove tame in comparison to what Ingram revealed next.

"Dire circumstances often require drastic actions...sacrifices. We cannot rest until we see our enemies interred in a field of ash. To begin, we must expose the diabolical nature of these pagans." He smiled then, the terrible smile of a dead carp. "These savages have a penchant for fire. For them, it holds some atavistic fascination. In the weeks following my broadcast, two of our less renowned fellowship centers will be put to the torch. The evidence will point towards this insidious order of Satan's harlots."

For several moments, the four elders were too flabbergasted to voice the slightest objection. As Walker pushed warily to his feet, he could feel every eye upon him. His heart was wrenched by a terrible sadness for he genuinely like Ingram...even admired his immense talent to organize and incite. Now, however, Ingram and went around the rim into hopeless insanity. To propose burning churches made it eminently clear that Gregor Ingram must be deposed at once. A grinning Ingram sat at the head of the table with an odd speculative expression set on his round face. Walker turned a pleading glance upon the other three, knowing that each had their own agenda to serve in the church. Still, he was confident that each would recognize that Ingram's insane witch hunt would signal the end of everything. Secure in this notion, Walker rose to his feet to address the gathering. "Well gentlemen, I think that it's painfully obvious that things cannot continue this way. We've ignore the signs for too long, but the idea of a witch hunt and church burning will ruin everything that we've labored so hard to build...not to mention, land the lot of us in either the penitentiary or the insane asylum."

Walker noticed that the other three were gazing at Ingram as though he was a new and particularly repulsive species of bug...one that just might prove poisonous. He drew a deep sigh of relief and forged ahead. "If we work quickly, we can minimize the damage by selecting a successor and producing an acceptable reason for the change."

Ingram listened to this seditious entreaty as though surrounded a mist of glacial calmness. After a time, he leaned forward in a deliberately slow fashion and sprung the latch of the lacquered box. The spring popped back with a surprisingly loud click and the lid abruptly sprang open. Gregor pushed himself to his feet and cast an accusatory, withering gaze on elder Walker, who had stopped speaking and was now regarding Ingram with a furrowed brow.

Ingram saw Walker's eyes shift to the box nervously and offered the elder a predatory grin.

"He warned that I would be betrayed and like Judas Iscariot, you have proven that he is an omniscient god. He told me how I should react in the face of such treachery. These are black times and his work is a great and terrible undertaking." With this, Gregor reached into the box and produced a Glock 9mm handgun, its blunt design lethal and unforgiving beneath the muted lights. He trained the gun directly upon the now terrified Walker.

"Gregor, for the love of God, be reasonable!" Walker cried. Gregor's smile only intensified as he murmured, "Yes, be reasonable."

The report of the Glock was thunderous, the second shot tearing the air even before the echo of the first had died. Walker was lifted off his feet and thrown over his high back leather chair, which landed atop the elder in a sickening sprawl of leather, wood, blood and brain matter.

For a moment, the room was utterly still and silent as the stench of cordite hung in the air like a pall. Drury, from his perspective, could not see the unfortunate Walker, but he could vividly see the pool of blood that was rapidly expanding on the parquet floor around the body. He blinked dumbly as though he had been jerked into a parallel reality where dark chaos held court. Still, the distressing crimson pool obstinately refused to vanish and Drury suddenly intuited that his life had suddenly become a hellish nightmare. He stole a furtive glimpse at the other two elders whose pallid faces informed him that they were sharing the same sickening sensations of despair and incredulity.

Only Gregor Ingram appeared completely unaffected by his act of unexpected and bewildering violence. He turned to the remaining elders and favored them with a radiant grin, as though his actions were worthy of vigorous praise. "As I've said gentlemen...these are dark and trying times. Either you align yourself with God's army or you side with his avowed enemies. There is no room for neutrality."

He then leveled the gun at Emon Drury, who flinched in reaction, but said nothing. "Very good, Emon. Fortitude in the face of death...that is precisely the kind of courage that will be required on the turbulent road that has been set for you."

Lowering the gun, he drifted casually back to the head of the table, where he laid the Glock aside and gazed into the lacquered box. Despite the horrific violence they had just witnessed, the rapturous expression on Ingram's face filled the surviving elders with a measure of curiosity.

"Despite the evil that we have wrought," he murmured dreamily, "God is still a kind and tolerant master. As an avowal of his love, he gave me this."

Ingram's hand disappeared into the box and then emerged with a wonder cradled in the cusp of his palm. The surface of the orb was vermillion but each of the elders correctly deduced that the device had the ability to alter its color at will. As if in affirmation of this theory, a ball of blinding argent light arced across the curved surface.

Beguiled in spite of what had just transpired, the three elders watched the storm that raged within the sphere. Abruptly, six argent bolts leapt from the confines of the orb. In unison, the elders sat perfectly erect, while Gregor looked on with a contented smile.

To their credit, some of the elders attempted to resist the seductive attraction of the orb, but that resistance was quickly surmounted by the beauty of the light that made the notion of independent will seem fatuous. As these visions of splendor proliferated, the three men began to smile until their expressions mirrored the one that Gregor had sported of late.

"I see that you have all been blessed with the gift of enlightenment," he observed softly. "That is well, for now we can begin planning for the reclamation of America."

Suffused with the zeal of their mad vision, the four men set about devising their elaborate plans for reclaiming the country of light. Nearby, the lifeless body of Larry Walker lay forgotten.

Chapter Five

1

"What's happened to America?"

Nath frowned. Elizabeth's question had been posed with such bewildered sincerity...a sincerity that Nath saw as another indication that she still possessed the key ingredients of essential humanity. She had been with them for over a week now and there had been many occasions when Nath had forgotten that she was anything other than an ordinary woman. Then he would turn to Tayza...see the dark shadow that had touched her brow...and his comforting illusion of normalcy would shatter. He stole a glance at Elizabeth, saw that she expected some manner of explanation, and carefully tried to measure his response. "What do you mean?"

Elizabeth frowned. "I recall living in Semelar. The world beyond seemed like a vast and distant place. Yes, there was ugliness and violence even then, but it seemed confined to specific places. Controlled. Now, the television conveys a constant stream of terrifying atrocities. In the streets, I see the pinched expressions of mistrust and fear and these are enhanced a hundred times with the setting of the sun."

Nath nodded his head in concurrence. He wished Contayza was here to hear the heart-felt pain in his mother's voice. Perhaps then her anxieties would have been eased to some degree. "What you're seeing now is the culmination of a long process...a downward spiral of decay. When I was a child, everyone believed that crime and violence was a thing of the ghettoes and housing projects, an ugly social anomaly that had little to do with the lives of the average American. As the years went by, the country came to realize just how horribly inaccurate that attitude was.

"So you attribute all of this to poverty and frustration?" Elizabeth asked dubiously.

Nath shook his head vehemently. "No, there is no single or simple cause. America is like a beautiful tapestry whose fabrics have begun to fray and rot. Why? Fear, avarice, corruption and apathy are all contributing factors. For a long time, we were taught to subscribe to the philosophy of "I"ism. I was the singularly most important thing in the world. People became so engrossed in the detail of their own lives that they failed to perceive what was creeping up behind them. Then again, maybe all of that is a bunch of sociological malarkey. Though you seem to be a living contradiction of what I'm about to say, I believe that everything is finite. All things have their time and things that burn the brightest also burn the shortest. Maybe that's the best explanation for what's happening to this country...maybe America has simply run its course."

Elizabeth's frown of perplexity deepened and her smooth brow furrowed. "What about the people? Surely there are those who recognize what is happening and are fighting to reverse it?"

"Yes, there are still a few people who are willing to stand up and give opposition to the rising tide of ugliness, but there is another detrimental characteristic that the country's developed – cynicism. Even when someone comes forward for a proposal for legitimate change, they're often met with a flood of cynical ridicule."

Elizabeth regarded Nath as though he might be toying with her. He shrugged and offered her a grin fraught with such bitterness that she knew he was sincere. Suddenly, he glanced at his gold Rolex. "What a coincidence. If you have the stomach for it, you can tune in and watch the perfect example for yourself."

Elizabeth inclined her head questioningly and Nath responded by gently taking her hand and leading her into the living room. When they were both seated before the television, Nath retrieved the remote and switched on the local NBC affiliate. As a succession of inane commercial flowed into each other, Nath provided Elizabeth with some background on what was to follow. "This show is one of the most popular regional shows in New England and is sure to gain National syndication. There are probably a dozen others shown regionally all over the country. The concept is very popular now."

"The concept?" Elizabeth echoed. She was suddenly gripped by the presentiment that something of consequence was about to transpire. The notion filled her with an abstract dread.

"It's a shameful concept, really, but the idea is to humiliate the guests who try to express, er...eclectic ideas or theories. The show is thinly disguised as informative, but it becomes quickly apparent what the true nature is all about...publicly humiliating those who are too zealous to grasp that they are being ridiculed."

"And people subject themselves to this willingly?" she asked, suspecting that the entire show could well be staged. The face of Kramer Halston filled the screen of Nath's LCD television and Elizabeth immediately knew that this was not the stuff of sham. Kramer's eyes twinkled with a malicious mirth and his thin lips were twisted in a sardonic grin that spoke of a man who would enjoy belittling others.

"I think that our audience is in for a treat today," Kramer began, his delivery smooth and self-assured. "Usually, this show's producers select our guests to appear based on their unusual beliefs and the notoriety that surrounds them. Today's guest approached our producers to ask if she could appear to deliver a personal plea."

This elicited a groan from Nath, who understood that this was likely to be an especially brutal denigration of the individual who had not been incisive enough to intuit the nature of the program. Kramer clapped his hands and declared, "Very well, let's bring out our guest and see exactly what she has to say."

Banal music filled the sound stage and a tall, elegant woman emerged from behind the black curtain. The woman was conservatively attired and though she was not beautiful in the league of an Elizabeth Simpson, she was striking and regal. Kramer gestured for his guest to sit before assuming his seat behind the host's desk where he made an elaborate show of consulting his notes. His guest waited patiently, her intense grey eyes never leaving his face.

"Our guest today is Dr. Zavora Asari. Doctor Asari would you please tell our audience the field in which you've obtained you doctorate."

"Actually, I have two doctorates" Zavora amended. Her voice was strong and compelling and Elizabeth found herself liking the Doctor immediately. "I obtained my first doctorate in Clinical Psychology. My second is related to Medieval Religions and Lore."

"Very impressive," Halston remarked in the tone of one conceding some trivial point in an argument. His eyes twinkled and he added, "Is it also true, Dr. Asari, that you are a practicing witch?"

A ripple went through the studio audience, punctuated by a peel of crude laughter. A fragment of a distant memory jolted Elizabeth's mind then like a shard of jagged glass. This cruel farce evoked the long-repressed memory of the first occasion that Elizabeth had set eyes upon Cynara Saravic during a television program in which an ambitious young report named Melissa (Danford, was it?) had conducted an interview very similar in tone to this one. It further occurred to her that she had watched the interview in the company of David Stillman and her heart wrenched painfully in her chest.

Asari held Kramer's gaze and when she spoke it was in a tone of one who was accustomed to such impertinence. "Witch is a term that I personally choose to avoid. It conjures a host of negative stereotypes that are foolish and harmful. I am a practitioner of a variation of the religion of Wicca."

"I see," Kramer offered in an apologetic tone. "How would you characterize your religion and beliefs, Dr. Asari?"

"Our form of Wicca is based upon the worship of the moon Goddess, whose power and favor is elemental in the direction of the tides of life. It's important to understand that this religion predates Christianity. Its practice was abolished by the authoritarian Catholic Church, an institution that savagely persecuted the followers of Wicca, driving them underground. Despite their best efforts, we refused to be driven to extinction."

"Yes, a testimony to perseverance to be sure, but is it true that Wiccans also dance naked around fires, while attempting to, 'and here he consulted his notes with a flourish,' draw down the moon?"

Zavora stiffened. This time the sardonic laughter was much louder. "Mr. Halston it is a very simple matter to besmirch the things we do not understand. It is the first tenant of intolerance and prejudice."

Kramer drew back as though wounded by his suggestion of intolerance. "I assure you, Dr. Asari that I am merely attempting to establish a background for our viewers. Perhaps I've oversimplified your rites of worship, but please put them in the proper perspective."

"This is odious," Elizabeth observed darkly. "How could anyone find this amusing?"

Nath shrugged, noting the flicker of orange in his mother's eyes and felt a prickle of disquiet from somewhere in the dark memories of his ordeal in Romania.

"The ritual that you've so poorly described is actually a form of prayer. The shedding of clothes is a symbol of deference to the natural order of Artemis...nudity being the natural state of the body. Unlike the inhibitions of the Christian culture, we do not view nudity or the human body as symbols of shame."

"Ah yes, I see the parallels," Halston intoned to a chorus of snickers. Still Kramer was not pleased with the flow of the interview. The woman possessed a formidable dignity that was difficult to fully exploit despite her nonsensical theories and beliefs.

"Dr. Asari, is it true that your particular order...er, the New Order of the Silver Goddess, is compose entirely of women?" Kramer inquired, advancing a new gambit. For the first time, Asari display some sign of outright discomfort.

"Yes," she allowed tentatively.

"Normally a Wiccan order is not confined to women?"

"True, the Wiccan religion welcomes both men and women," Zavora replied evenly.

"But your does not?" All pretense of levity had vanished from Kramer's expression. Failing to humiliate Asari with impertinence, Halston was now intent on denigrating her any way he could. Ever perceptive, Zavora saw this at once, but knew that it was an indignity that she would be forced to endure if she was to deliver her plea. "Our order is more specialized. We do not reject men. We merely seek to educate young women in the ways of the moon goddess."

"So you're saying that the order of the Silver Goddess is essentially a training school?" Kramer pressed, his grin assuming a shark-like aspect.

Dr. Asari nodded, raising her chin defiantly. "To some degree, yes."

Kramer cast a knowing glance towards his audience, who were poised to see their hero give this bitch her comeuppance. Then he turned back to Asari. "The Wiccan order, with its strange promiscuity and exclusive female membership...you could see how easy it would be to misconstrue your order as one with a distinct feminist agenda."

Asari's face blanched in revulsion. "That's ludicrous. Our order is devoted to the worship of the Goddess. We have no hidden agenda and we are in no way subversive. We most definitely do not harbor any enmity towards men."

"Very well, Dr. Asari." Kramer responded, his sardonic grin tinged by curt frustration. "You requested that we give you the opportunity to make a mysterious public appeal. Well, here's your chance."

The camera focused squarely upon Asari's strong, angular face. The steel grey eyes softened perceptibly, becoming impassioned and pleading. "I speak now to the emissary...you who are pledged to lead our order in the darkness that hovers just over the horizon. We have seen your face and do humbly await your coming so that we might serve our lady's will. In her sublime wisdom, Artemis has sent forth the golden witch – her aspect on earth – to guide and instruct her daughters. We adjure you to reveal yourself and ward us against our enemies."

Asari stopped and glanced rather awkwardly at Halston who was regarding her as if she might be a dangerous lunatic. "Would you care to explain that rather...esoteric monologue?"

Asari's eyes blazed with muted fury. Abruptly, she rose to her feet. "Actually, I have no interest in carrying on this conversation. Nor will I tolerate further scurrilous innuendo or infantile sarcasm."

Again, Kramer affected an expression of moral indignation. Zavora Asari shook her head in disgust and began to stride purposefully toward the exit. Elizabeth could scarcely move, though she struggled to conceal her anxiety behind a mask of impassivity. Asari's words reverberated in her mind like the detonation of an artillery shell. "We have seen your face...Artemis has sent forth the golden witch." The allusion was clear enough once one grasped the terms of reference. Elizabeth shivered and forced herself to focus upon the reprehensible television program.

"My god!" Nath abruptly exclaimed, his eyes popping wide in disbelief and horror. As the doctor marched across the stage, her regal bearing undiminished by the sorry spectacle that she had just been forced to endure, a burly man in the second row vaulted over the front seat. Pandemonium descended on the sound stage like the crashing of a breaker on a beach during a violent storm. Sputtering religious gibberish like a Jihad warrior, the man converged on the startled Asari, who pivoted to meet his charge. Zavora managed to raise her left hand in time to partially deflect her assailant's blow. Still, the wild punch landed high on her cheek, sending her reeling into the velvet curtain and then to the floor.

Even the cameraman seemed nonplussed by the violent confusion for the televised perspective jerked about from the audience to the jumble of security personnel before finally settling on Halston.

Though Kramer appeared bewildered by the attack, something in his eyes convinced Elizabeth that his reaction was anything but sincere. The security personnel finally managed to drag the still raving attacker off of Asari. Zavora managed to climb unsteadily to her feet seconds before the station went to commercial break. The New England television audience was given a brief glimpse of the battered doctor. Blood streamed freely down her face from a nasty gash just above her left eyebrow. Her grey eyes were pain-clouded and unfocused but Elizabeth noticed that not a single person had come to her aid, forcing her to cling to the heavy curtain to stay upright.

Nath turned to his mother, his normally placid eyes burning with anger and revulsion. "That son of a bitch knew it, didn't he?"

Elizabeth regarded her son somberly for several moments and then nodded. Halston had know as had most of those in attendance. Zavora Asari was perhaps the only person who failed to realize that she would not escape the disgusting episode without being robbed of her dignity in one way or the other. There was something else that Elizabeth gleaned that the doctor could not possibly suspect; the lords of darkness had finally initiated their rite of vengeance. All that remained to be revealed was what form that vengeance might assume.

2

Elizabeth settled back into her leather studio chair, feeling bleak and dispirited. Nath was too consumed by the travesty he had just witnessed to have notice her pained reaction. "I think that episode succinctly summarized just what has happened to this country," he remarked, a faint moue of disgust twisting his lips. "As bad as that was – and believe me when I say that was atrocious even by Halston standards – it is not the worst tripe of its type."

He activated the television console and issued an audio command. With a bewildered shake of his head, he confirmed, "The evangelical network."

Somber music filled the room, followed by the rather apocalyptic prologue, "Now join Dr. Gregor Ingram for this important inspirational message of faith from the temple of the Revisionist Church in Nashville, Tennessee.

Elizabeth shifted her gaze to the screen, grimacing at the weariness that suddenly suffused her normally indefatigable body. Though immortal and thus immune to the ravages of age and exhaustion, she felt as though the weight of the ages had settled onto her shoulders in the turn of an hour.

The lavish auditorium was brimming to capacity, every zealous eye focused raptly on the single man who commanded the dais. The moment his eyes filled the screen, eyes gleaming with the fever of the hypnotized, Elizabeth Simpson discerned the extent of Gregor Ingram's madness. Though he seemed to hold his emotions on a tight rein, the man radiated a lunacy that was staggering in its proportion and could not be attenuate by the miles that separated him from Simpson. Her demon's acuity conveyed the sense that he was a terrifying menace to everything around him.

When Ingram clutched the edges of the podium and bent slightly forward to commence his sermon, Elizabeth's worst fears were corroborated.

"I come tonight to reveal the Lord's vision for the role of the true Christian in today's era of darkness and wither." Gregor raised the bible above his head, paused theatrically and slammed it to the floor beside the dais with such vehemence that his congregation gasped in unison. The camera abruptly panned the audience before settling on a rather bovine woman who had evidently fainted at the temerity of Ingram's apparent act of sacrilege.

Gregor snatched up the microphone and came to stand over the bible, gazing down upon it with an expression of profound regret. "In this country, we have walked out from under the face of God, knowingly plunging ourselves into a pool of shadows that his light may not reach."

He glanced up and surveyed his audience, his hawkish face livid and his blue eyes ablaze with the fervent gleam of lunacy. "We have forsaken his love. We have turned our back on him and his divine teaching, instead choosing to pursue lives of perversity and depravity. We are no longer worthy of this book and its teachings and so I have cast it aside."

He stood over the discarded bible, staring out at his audience with eyes that glared a belligerent challenge. "Who here can stand and defend what we have allowed this country to become? Who here can say that they have lived a truly Christian life and have faithfully adhered to the doctrine that was put forth in this holiest of books? I surely cannot."

As Ingram gathered himself, Nath and Elizabeth exchanged perplexed glances. "He has the congregation spellbound," she observed with clear discomfort. "If he suddenly pointed out people in the audience and demanded that they be crucified, most would willingly comply."

Nath merely nodded, deducing that her observation was frighteningly correct. Now Gregor moved to the front of the stage, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "We need only look to the daily news to view our sad catalogue of sins. All forms of sexual deviation are condoned, even praised by the people who we have elected to lead us. We shamelessly kill the unborn, ripping them bloody from the womb of the wanton. We allow the killing of the old and enfeebled under the black pretext of mercy. Violence ravages our society like the most pernicious poison and yet we find sympathy for the remorseless and wicked. Perhaps the saddest indictment of all is that we lionize the miscreant and heap aspersions upon the righteous."

"Standing here and gazing out over this flock, I can perhaps empathize with the horror and revulsion that Moses must have felt as he came down from the mountain. Before him, he saw his once God-fearing people turned to sexual decadence and the worship of false gods." A mortified ripple of indignation rose from the congregation, but Gregor raised his hands for silence.

"No you say?" he roared, his voice reverberating over the cavernous hall. "In our own country, in our own neighborhoods, we have looked on while heathens raised edifices to their dark and forbidden gods. You say, "But have we not raised an outcry, brother Gregor? Can we be held to account if our cries have fallen on deaf ears?" Yes, you have vehemently expressed your outrage and yes, your pleas have been ignored. Still, you have not done enough!"

Again, he paused, his chest heaving and his brow slick with perspiration. After a moment, his fury seemed to subside. "You ask me what more we can do. Well brothers and sisters I am here to spell it out in unequivocal terms for God has come to me to lead his children out of this netherworld and back into the world of golden light. Know this...the time of the meek, complacent Christian has passed. Holy God has donned his armor and has set out to vanquish his enemies and drive them from his kingdom. You ask me what you must do and I say that you must take up his sword and become a weapon of his will. We must root our Satan and bring down his houses of iniquity. We must resolve ourselves to this the way a sword is tempered by fire. The task of reclaiming his blessed kingdom has fallen to us. Will you hearken to that call?"

He raised his arms and a profound silence descended upon the auditorium. Softly at first and then spreading and growing like rolling thunder, the congregation proclaimed their willingness to follow Ingram. A fierce smile broke over his flat face, surfacing like a beast from the deep. "One by one, we will seek them out and one by one we will lay them low."

The roar of the congregation crescendoed into a wail of rapture. Ingram raised his voice to match it. "So I ask you to set your bibles aside and take up the sword and prove to him that we are worthy of his eternal love."

The assembly became one swaying, moaning entity, raising his praising in a torrent of hysterical shrieks.

Gregor raised his hands for silence and now there was a triumphant aspect about his expression. Elizabeth would have easily believe that he was a master showman – a skilled manipulator with a keen talent for bombast – had it not been for the blinding light of insanity shining in his eyes. When the assembly had complied for his demand for silence, Gregor renewed his onslaught.

"Be forewarned, we embark upon a road fraught with peril, for the miscreant is cunning and vile and manifests itself from a thousand pools of shadow. They will resort to any evil, no matter how perverse or vile, to deter us from the realization of his will. We will rise up from this moment and flow forth like a holy tide that shall wash this country clean!"

This rather trite metaphor was greeted by a thunderous ovation from the assembly. "If politicians move to defy the will of God, we shall wash them away!!!"

This was greeted with a round of blissful applause that shook the foundations of the building.

"If Satan's vile servants stand before us, we shall wash them away!" The cries of the congregation were a deafening and incessant underscore to Ingram's raving. "We will not rest until we have driven off the miscreant and restored Christian order and virtue to everyday life in America."

Now his voice became a conspiratorial whisper and all noise ceased on cue. "The lord has defined our enemies, casting his light upon the foul so that we might stamp them out one after the other. We must begin with the heathens and infidels who raise up false gods and entice our Christian brethren to worship these gods. To them I would say this...know that you have been marked."

Gregor paused and withdrew a single sheet of paper from his perspiration-soaked jacket. "This list holds the names of our most wicked enemies and one by one, we shall pare this list down. At the head of this list is an insidious order and like us, they have chosen this very day to bring their hateful message of evil to the nation."

"Like a vile birth, the New Order of the Silver Goddess has sprung from that cradle of witchcraft: New England. The demon they deify is an old and wicked evil. This most foul of creatures has sent her child...a golden harlot...to lead them in the coming battle."

Now the camera zoomed to tight focus on the evangelist. "I know you...you corruptor of the righteous...you despoiler of the innocent. He has shown me your face and we shall not rest until you have been dragged from the darkness and left staked and burning in the noonday sun."

Gregor Ingram, transformed holy warrior, bowed his head and disclosed, "Now let us pray that our blessed Lord might fortify us so that we may persevere in the storm to come."

As Ingram led his congregation in prayer, a choir began to sing and the shows final credits began to roll. Nath switched the television off and sat back in his chair, a rare sardonic grin set on his face. That grin quickly dissolved when he turned to face his mother and gauged her reaction to all that she had just witnessed. Elizabeth had slumped against the armrest of her chair as though too weak to even bare her own weight. Her exquisite face was ashen and when she turned to face her son, her eyes were alight with misery.

"Mother, you can take this seriously?" Nath exclaimed, misconstruing the source of her anxiety. "The man is pure theater and even if he was perfectly serious, you're still dealing with an isolated group of fanatics."

"On that count, you're wrong, Nathaniel," Elizabeth disagreed. "Everything that he said, I must take to be deadly serious."

Perplexed, Nath gaped at his mother, waiting for her to elaborate. Finally, tears of grief began to stream down her face. "Like Zavora Asari, this Gregor Ingram was speaking of me."

3

"You see Nathaniel, I've been plagued by nightmares," Elizabeth explained as the tears subsided. Now it was Nath's turn to stiffen in reaction to Elizabeth's revelation. They started about a year ago and have come with greater frequency as the months passed.

"What kind of nightmares?" Nath heard himself ask distantly, his voice taut and thin.

"They are vague and convoluted, but steeped in intense dread despite being so ambiguous," she began hesitantly. She did not bother to mention that it was odd that a creature of her ilk could dream at all. For a demon, sleep was a mere diversion and not a necessity...one that could best be described as a lapse into sensory darkness. That she could dream at all was in itself a terrifying turn of events, the ramifications of which Elizabeth was fearful to ponder. "Beyond that, there is a feeling of suffocating claustrophobia, for I constantly find myself surrounded by a million faces, all speaking to me at once. In every eye, there is a different emotion, yet each stridently demands my attention. Above this, I sense more than see the approach of something huge and apocalyptic...a malefic force whose sole purpose is destruction."

"I am the force who has attracted these obscure millions and thus the undefined juggernaut beyond. At first, I had hoped that these nightmares were aberrations as well, but as they grew in frequency and clarity, I knew that they were somehow portentous." She paused and drew a shaky breath, a gesture of weariness so atypical of Elizabeth that it prompted Nath to shudder. Reluctantly, he confessed, "I've been plagued by similar nightmares. They started not long after Contayza told me that she was pregnant."

"Did you recognize any of the faces?" Elizabeth asked after a protracted silence. Nath shook his head. "The people seemed distorted and shadowy, but the general impression that something momentous and terrifying was about to befall them was very strong."

Elizabeth rose to her feet and began to prowl about the living room, her general posture reminding Nath of a huge predatory cat.

"You said that Ingram and Asari were referring to you...how could you possibly know that?" Nath inquired, his tone somehow doubtful.

Elizabeth stopped and regarded her son somberly. "I've seen the faces every time I close my eyes. The people in my dreams are perfectly defined. Ingram was antagonistic and Asari was reverent. There are other major players as well...a tall, frightening man and a woman of breathtaking beauty."

"What can it mean?" Nath wondered, clearly bemused by the discovery that both he and his mother shared similar dreams.

Elizabeth shook her head in consternation. "What it might mean specifically, I cannot say, but the fact that the dream characters do exist does not bode well. My guess could be that Cynara's masters have decided to seek vengeance against me. What form that vengeance might assume cannot even be guessed at. What concerns me the most is that you share these nightmares, intimating that you might play a role in whatever is to come."

Nathaniel rose and crossed over to where she stood, taking her shoulders in his hands. "You're going to leave again, aren't you?"

"Yes! I cannot risk that my family might be embroiled in an evil vendetta. I must leave at once," she concluded resolutely.

Nath shook his mother vigorously. "No. What good will running do? You belong here with me. If there is something to face, then we should do it together."

Elizabeth sighed and raised her hands to her face. "Nathaniel, you sustained me through twenty years of wretched imprisonment in my own flesh. In return, I've provided you with the opportunity to suffer and grieve. I will not compound the misery I've caused by bringing a cataclysm down on your family."

"Dammit, that should be my choice to make!" he protested sullenly.

"Your first obligation is to Contayza and the child she carries...your child. Be practical, Nathaniel. You lack the resources to protect your family against my enemies. That is why I must leave."

There was a fundamental flaw in this line of reasoning, but Nathaniel was too distraught to summon it forth. Seeing that he could not dissuade her, his face crumpled into an expression of total anguish. "When will you go?"

Elizabeth considered this for a moment. "My intention won't change in that David Stillman is my first obligation. Searching for David might well put distance between the two of us, keeping you safe. The search might also provide me with the time required to unravel the riddle of the nightmare."

"Mother, even if you should find David, what will you do?"

"Plead for forgiveness and help in whatever way I can?"

Nath shook his head in helpless dismay, "You can't live an eternity running away from Cynara's masters. A fate like that is futile and too awful to consider."

"If there is such a creature as fate it was never intended to guarantee happiness. Perhaps I've committed some sin that warrants exactly this outcome. Whatever the case, my only desire is to make restitution with David and insure that you and your family are safe."

On impulse, Nathaniel threw his arms around Elizabeth and drew him to her. "I want you to promise me that you'll come back...and soon. Also, you have to let me know where you are and how you're doing."

"I will, Nathaniel," she vowed, relishing the clean smell of his hair before pushing him to arms length. "Perhaps I'm being foolish, but I harbor the illusion that I might have a normal life and watch my son and his family grow. I am immortal and powerful beyond your ability to grasp and yet the thing I desire the most could well be beyond my reach...simple contentment."

She gripped his wrist and gently, but firmly led him to her Jaguar. They hugged and Elizabeth climbed inside. "I don't want you to fret over me, Nath. I am more than capable of taking care of myself. Your Contayza is a precious jewel. Cling to her. When the time is right, I'll come back to you."

Nathaniel nodded but did not speak, fearing that words would betray him then. He leaned through the window and kissed her cheek, then stepped back and watched glumly as she deftly backed the jaguar onto the street and headed west.

He continued to gaze along the empty street for a long time. It occurred to him that, in her haste, Elizabeth had not even bothered to pack her few possessions.

Chapter Six

1

Nathaniel was slouched dejectedly in his window seat some four hours later when Contayza returned from school.

"Elizabeth is out?" she inquired, noticing that the Jagaur was not in the drive. Nath did not reply at once and when he finally turned to face her, his expression was one of sullen dejection. "She's gone, Contayza."

Tayza stopped, regarding her husband quizzically. "What do you mean...she's gone?"

Patiently, Nath recounted the day's events, concluded with Elizabeth's decision to suddenly leave. Contayza's face remained impassive, but inside she met the news of Elizabeth's hasty departure with no small measure of relief.

"She's made the right decision, Nath," Tayza remarked cautiously. Nath turned an unhappy glance on his wife and then returned to his scrutiny to the empty street. "Maybe so, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept. My God, she utterly alone. I'm her son and I can't do a bloody thing to help her. Do you know how pathetic that makes me feel?"

For a long moment, Contayza said nothing, troubled by his expression of consuming anxiety. "Nathaniel, Elizabeth can take care of herself. You and I both know how powerful a creature of her kind can be."

Nath's mouth twisted ruefully at his wife's use of the word creature. "You didn't see the look on Ingram's face, Tayza. It's not possible to gauge the extent of his madness. He is obsessed with finding and destroying her and he will not rest until either he or she is dead. He is only the tip of the iceberg. There are others after her, though she is not sure who they are. They intend to hunt my mother like an animal, Contayza."

Again, Contayza elected to remain silent, fearing that she might reveal some of her true feeling towards Elizabeth Simpson. Instead, she attempted to direct the conversation towards something more pleasant. "Nathaniel, I have an appointment with Doctor Raltman."

When Nath only nodded distantly, Tayza became furious. "Nathaniel, we are your priorities...the baby and I. I sympathize with your mother, I truly do, but there is nothing that you and I can do to help her. Nothing!"

The hurt expression in Nath's eyes prompted Tayza to abruptly end her tirade. Without rancor, Nath remarked, "I know that Elizabeth frightens you and frankly, I understand why, but she loves you Tayza and she would never do anything to hurt either one of us. As to the question of priorities, I've never lost sight of mine. Can you say the same?"

Contayza's jaw dropped, but before she could press Nath for an explanation, he brushed by his wife and trudged up the stairs. Contayza stood in the front hall, her head hanging in disbelief as the late afternoon light slanted through the bay window. Suddenly, unexpectedly, a black hatred welled up in the pit of her soul, spewing into her thoughts like burning bile.

"Why did you have to come here, you despicable bitch?" she rasped.

A small crystal lamp sat atop a tiny marble end table near the wingback. A picture of Elizabeth – taken when she was still very much human – sat next to the lamp and as it fell under Tayza's gaze, she began to frown.

In the next instant, the crystal lamp exploded into a thousand tiny shards that scattered over the hardwood floor. Initially, Contayza was too startled to react. She had not unleashed her telekinetic ability since the night of her cataclysmic confrontation with Cynara. Up until this moment, she had felt certain that she had lost the ability completely.

Gazing down at the glinting bits of crystal, Contayza grinned wickedly. She still possessed the means to protect her family should anyone attempt to harm them...Elizabeth Simpson included.

2

Elizabeth had left Nathaniel, fully intending to leave Boston immediately and begin her drive across country. Near the outskirts of Boston, she pulled the Jag into an automated banking station, intending to draw off a sufficient amount of cash to allow her to travel non-stop to Washington State. Elizabeth had been shocked to discover the size and extent of Cynara Saravic's wealth. Diverse in nature and global in scale, Cynara had amassed an enormous financial empire that could rival the net worth of many small countries. To maintain her anonymity, Cynara had skillfully divided up her holdings into several small portions spread over a dozen countries. Each segment of the funds was managed by a broker who had no knowledge of his counterpart.

Upon inheriting this vast empire, Elizabeth had decided to leave it intact, drawing off portions of the wealth to compensate many of Cynara's victims.

She folded a large sum of bills into her purse and was walking back to her car when she was overcome by a strange malaise. Even traipsing the last few yards to the car was an onerous task that she could barely complete. Still, she found it in herself to throw open the door and slump into the leather seat. It was evident that this malady was psychological, brought on at least in part by the forced abandonment of her son. Yet there was something more and she forced herself to drag it center stage in her thoughts, though she had vehemently avoided considering it for years.

Semelar. That name, with its unsettling sibilance, represented a place that stood as a terrible benchmark in her life. Elizabeth wondered if she actually possessed the fortitude to return to the town that had been the source of such towering happiness and such sinking despair. It had been in Semelar that she had fallen under Cynara's dark thrall. It had been there that her life as a human being had ended and her eternity as an immortal night-demon had begun. Could she go back there and face the emotional firestorm that such a return would certainly provoke?

' _You have no choice, Elizabeth...no choice at all_.' She recognized he melodious voice with its deceptively teasing edge. This was the voice of her tormentor, her benefactress and her darkest secret...this was the voice of Cynara Saravic. The voice had been fraught with an implacable certitude that evoked a cold shiver in Elizabeth.

"No, never!" Elizabeth vowed. "Never!"

She glanced up and gazed around the quiet boulevard. The wind had begun to gust and high above the parking lot, seemingly benign clouds rolled toward the Atlantic Ocean. To reflect upon Cynara and all that she represented, including the cataclysmic manner in which she had invaded Elizabeth's life, was akin to wandering into a complex and seemingly inescapable labyrinth.

Contayza had once asked if she despised the demon and Simpson had replied truthfully that she did not. Indeed, Cynara had been a reprobate who had destroyed Elizabeth's life with irreversible finality. It would have been very easy to nail Cynara upon a cross of hatred and raise her to stand as a symbol of her own dissolution. Easy, save for the long period when Elizabeth had dwelt with Cynara in a perfect state of contentment. She did not despise Cynara, but felt an intense pity for the woman. If she was being completely candid, Elizabeth would admit that there were times when a part of her missed the dark beauty's companionship. Though insatiable blood lust sickened and repulsed her, Elizabeth could empathize with the frightening desperation that had driven Cynara to seek out and turn her. Surely, the most pernicious enemy of a demon was loneliness. Elizabeth had not even lived the span of one normal life and she had already felt the sting of constant isolation.

Simpson had come to realize that Cynara's turning of the naive woman from Semelar had not been inspired by hatred, nor had it necessarily been inspired purely by lust. Despite her beguiling beauty, Cynara felt the need for a relationship that was permanent. Though Cynara's approach had been vulgar and reprehensible, as was Saravic's fashion, Elizabeth could not bring herself to condemn the woman for the motives that lay behind it.

"Is that why you're going to find David? Are you trying to rationalize Cynara's actions to justify doing the same thing to David?"

The notion startled Elizabeth, though she considered the idea outlandish, having vowed that she would never consign another soul to this wretched existence. Nothing could compel her to subject a human being to that particular fate. Then why the obsessive quest to find a man who is, in all probability, dead? Again, the answer was complicated and rooted in emotion and instinct rather than cold logic.

David represented a spiritual ideal and her search for him confirmed her essential humanity. If she retained even a trace of her sponsor's iniquity, the notion of trying to help someone whom she had wronged would have been well beyond her sensibilities.

" _Do you truly believe that, Elizabeth?_ " she demanded of herself. She retained enough of the demon's cold, dispassionate nature to be capable of brutal and tenacious self-analysis. " _If you find David and gaze into his eyes, do you really believe that you will simply offer him a heart felt apology and then walk away_?"

Simpson sighed. She could not even begin to formulate an answer to that question. On numerous occasions she had tried to imagine what her encounter with Stillman might be like and found that she simply could not.

"To quote a shop-worn proverb, best to cross that bridge when we come to it," she murmured, gazing skyward as the clouds sail by with mute indifference.

The emotional turmoil over her search for her lost lover was not the only reason that she found herself reluctant to leave Boston. Her finely-honed instincts warned her that there was something left undone in the New England city. She felt confident that distancing herself from Nathaniel and Contayza would keep them reasonably safe, but it was imperative that she try to fathom the dark riddle of her pervasive nightmares.

There could be little doubt that Cynara's masters lay behind both Zavora Asari and Gregor Ingram's knowledge of her existence (though the particulars of how they came by that knowledge were mystifying in the extreme). Still, what was to be gained by setting the two factions on a collision course? Elizabeth shook her head in consternation. The only possible explanation she could produce lay in the fact that her enemies seemed to lack the means to locate her. Because she was not strictly a demon, Elizabeth Simpson walked in the protective mantle of shadow. By restraining the use of her power, Elizabeth had made herself virtually impossible to detect, therefore it was not inconceivable that this was a ploy to draw her out. If so, then her enemies were far more insidious and subtle than she had given them credit for. Being unable to deduce her enemies' intentions was frightening because she could not eliminate the possibility that those who sought her destruction might well seek out her family in her stead.

What could they possibly hope to achieve by deluding these two groups and pitting them against each other. Elizabeth could not begin to speculate, but she was suddenly gripped by the certitude that she might undermine their subterfuge if she could disabuse one group of the idea that she was either a Goddess or a dark mother of evil. Obviously, Ingram was far beyond the reach of reason, not to mention that fact that Ingram had been deceived into thinking that she was evil incarnate. Zavora Asari, however, did seem lucid and might even be approachable. It was possible that, by revealing herself to Dr. Asari, she would only enforce the woman's delusion, but that was a calculated risk that she was willing to take.

Resolved to this course of action, she then set herself to the task of locating the doctor. Had there been an occasion on which she had actually met the doctor, this would have been as simple as rising into the astral plane and trying to isolate the woman's unique aura very much in the way that she had been able to locate Nathaniel from a half a world away. Conversely, Cynara had effectively erased David Stillman's personality, thus altering his aura. She could not contemplate the difficulties she would face in trying to locate David lest her heart fall to paralyzing despair.

Reaching into the glove carrier, Elizabeth selected a micro compact disk and popped it into the Jag's onboard computer console. Seconds later, the Boston area telephone directory flashed onto the screen.

Asari had been attacked during the morning taping of Halston's odious show, which was produced in the City of Boston. During an earlier radio news account of the incident, Elizabeth had learned that Zavora's injuries had been serious enough to warrant an overnight stay in a local hospital. For obvious reasons, the report did not specify the name of the hospital to which she'd been taken.

Scanning the hospital directory, Elizabeth began to call each, insisting that she was Asari's sister. The ploy worked and she soon found herself speeding through evening traffic, heading back into the city's interior.

The Kennedy Memorial Medical Complex was a sprawling new edifice to the wonders of 21st century medicine. Elizabeth parked her Jag in the visitor's parking lot as far away from the other vehicles as she was able. Locking her doors, she settled back into her seat, closed her eyes and allowed her chin to settle to her chest. In an instant, her spirit had slipped the moorings of her physical body, rocketing upward and through the walls of concrete and re-enforcing steel. Prowling the hushed corridors, Elizabeth soon found the doctor sequestered in the recuperative care ward. Simpson was relieved to discover that a guard had been posted outside the door of her room. Evidently, the Boston police had come to the conclusion that the attack on Asari might be more than an isolated act of a single lunatic.

With the turn of a thought, she found herself sitting in her car, trying to devise a plan to gain access to the Doctor. As she walked across the busy street, heels ringing on the pavement, Elizabeth garnered dozens of appreciative glances from both men and women which she fielded with the ghost of a smile. Central reception was a mass of humanity and Elizabeth Simpson threaded her way through the crowd and on to the central bank of elevator. She entered the first immaculately clean enclosure and punched in the correct floor number. Absorbed with the task at hand, she failed to notice the tall, blonde man who stood recessed in the shadows watching her intently.

When the elevator door closed and the lift began to ascend, the man thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and pushed his way through the throng and out into the deepening dusk.

"She's come, thus propelling this process to its next level," he murmured to himself, dismayed by the manner in which the situation was beginning to escalate. Had she simply elected to drive away and leave well enough alone, the chain of events would have been severed, but her presence here would provide the deadly sequence with a new and terrible momentum. The man paused on the hospital steps and gazed up at the building. He saw that he would have to risk direct contact to avoid calamity.

3

Patrolman Andrew Meyer was utterly bored. Gazing up at the digital wall clock every two minutes only served to exacerbate matters. He despised this mundane guard duty more than any of the other trivial tasks he normally drew. Crowd control at a Bruins or Celtics game was a treat, but standing guard outside the hospital room of a nut who had been attacked by an even more volatile nut was nothing short of torturous.

To make matters worse, the nurses on this floor had the personalities of cranky school spinsters. His few attempts at flirtation had been met with baleful disdain. He glanced at the clock for the thousandth time, muttering a vile curse upon the duty sergeant who had delegated him to this miserable task.

Down the hall, the elevator doors whispered open and Meyers glanced over with the cursory interest of a man who views his job as a waste of time. Upon catching his first glance of the figure that emerged from the elevator, Andrew became totally alert.

The tall blond who disembarked might well have been announced by a bank of neon lights. Meyers stood riveted as she glanced toward the policeman and began to move in his direction.

"Hello, Officer," she said softly, her voice crisp and melodious. "I believe this is Zavora Asari's room?"

Meyers attempted to affect a severe expression, but he found himself lost in the iridescent light of those exquisite blue eyes. Suddenly his eyelids felt heavy as though his body had been suffused by a total, yet pleasant exhaustion. With this weariness came an erosion of his will. Contravening direct orders, he mumbled, "Yes, but I'm not really supposed to say that."

His voice trailed off as a look of confusion dawned in his dull brown eyes. Elizabeth could clearly conceive a distinct adolescence to his murky nature, one that would render him an easy mark for her skilled manipulation. Quickly, she placed an index finger in the hollow of his left temple. Meyers abruptly stiffened, but that rigidity quickly drained from his body. "I'm going in to see Doctor Asari. You will remain here and admit no one else. Should a doctor or nurse come around, rap lightly on the door. When I am finished, you will recall nothing of this conversation."

Meyers nodded dreamily. Simpson smiled and entered Doctor Asari's room. Zavora was lost in the shadows of a muted yellow light. Elizabeth moved to her bedside and stood near the railing, gazing down at the sleeping doctor.

Reminders of the day's brutal assault were still visible on Asari's lovely face. Her left cheek was horribly swollen and discolored, while her upper lip was split where her attacker's fist had mashed it against her teeth. Elizabeth could feel the pain radiating from the doctor's body in slow, languid waves.

Then Asari's face inclined toward Elizabeth and her eyes found her visitor's angelic face. At first, they were confused and vacuous, but as cognizance filtered through, that confusion gave way to a wild excitement.

"The emissary!" she exclaimed, attempting to rise to one elbow before the pain defeated her efforts. She sank back to her pillow, but her eyes still burned with euphoria. Elizabeth smiled and gently laid a long index finger upon Asari's lips. "I need your attention, Zavora. We have little time and there is much that we must discuss."

Asari nodded solemnly. Elizabeth frowned, discerning the zeal that had been inculcated into Zavora's thoughts by whatever force was attempting to usurp control of her mind. Surmounting that zeal would prove difficult, but Simpson could see no real alternative.

For her part, Zavora stared up through the fog of her pain, her mind reeling with the rapture of the emissary's presence. All that she had devoted her life to was irrefutably affirmed by this creature's divine presence. The huge blue eyes, pellucid and sage; the luminescent hair of spun gold that hung in a thick cable braid over one shoulder, between the deep valley of her breasts; the lustrous beauty of the finely-boned face...all of these things came together like the very embodiment of Artemis' golden glory.

"I knew that you would come...my degradation was not in vain." Suddenly tears began to spill from Zavora's eyes.

Elizabeth began to stroke the Doctor's brow. "The pain is severe?"

Asari nodded and Elizabeth tenderly laid her hand upon the swollen mass of flesh. Asari uttered a small cry, but the pain quickly relented before the placating warmth of Simpson's touch. Zavora's eyes widened, first in apprehension and then delight, as the healing warmth spread through the flesh and bones of her injured face, cooling the heat of inflammation and knitting the bones that had cracked beneath the attacker's heavy fists.

Elizabeth then placed two fingers on the split lip. When she had finished her ministrations, Zavora's face had been restored to its former austere beauty.

"There is more," Elizabeth remarked softly, to which Asari merely nodded in reverence. Elizabeth turned down the cool, crisp sheets and placed her hands on Zavora's right side. Moments later, Elizabeth straightened and drew back, regarding Asari questioningly. Zavora smiled in gratitude and pushed herself in sitting position. The tears came again, but now they were tears of bitterness intermingled with joy. Elizabeth patiently allowed Zavora to expend her tears. Having been witness to the doctor's humiliation and violation, she knew that the bitterness was well founded. When Asari's weeping had subsided, Elizabeth began to speak in a low, urgent voice. Zavora leaned forward and listened intently, her posture suggesting that she fully expected to be party to some splendorous revelation.

"You must listen to me, Zavora," Elizabeth began emphatically. "You've been victim of a wicked game of misdirection. For reasons that I cannot fathom, someone is leading you to believe that I am this emissary."

"I saw your face kindled in the flames of divination. I heard the voice of Artemis proclaim that you were her harbinger dispatched to ward us from our enemies," Zavora objected, her eyes becoming flinty.

"Zavora, I have no doubt that you saw my face in the flames, but it is imperative you believe that the augury was conjured by Satan and not you Goddess."

"There is no Satan!" Zavora insisted gruffly. "He is a myth conceived by the Church to terrorize its followers into docility."

Elizabeth surged forward and gripped the doctor's thin wrist. The bones seemed soft and frangible in her powerful grasp. The slightest exertion could easily have ground them into powder. As Zavora winced her obstinacy vanished giving way to trepidation. Elizabeth rasped, "Never doubt that there is a Dark Prince, Zavora." As her gaze lashed Zavora, she intoned bitterly, "I am a product of his evil."

Elizabeth released her grip and Asari shrank back against her pillow, shaking her head in a distracted gesture of negation. Seeing Asari's momentary confusion, Simpson forged ahead, "By revealing knowledge of my existence, you have placed yourself and your order in grave danger."

"Who are you?" Asari demanded truculently, her fear giving way to a sly sarcasm that caused Elizabeth's momentary optimism to falter.

"A name is of little importance. What I am could best be described as a demon, though that is really a misnomer. I am certainly not an emissary of Artemis."

"Then why have you come?" Zavora cried in a petulant and angry voice that made Elizabeth wince. The doctor glanced toward the room's single window. Beyond, a crescent moon shone down with blithe indifference. "Why have I been forsaken? Have I not endured enough without further humiliation? If this is the working of your will, please help me to understand?"

Elizabeth viewed the woman's anguish silently, waiting for the grief and sense of betrayal to subside. Zavora finally turned her eyes back to Elizabeth. Her grey eyes were reddened by tears. The strong, resolute woman, who had confronted the boorish Kramer Halston had given way to the hesitant, dispirited shadow. "Have I devoted my entire life to a myth?"

The desperate, beseeching eyes stung Elizabeth's heart. "I don't know, Zavora," She replied thoughtfully. "Perhaps your Goddess does exist. Experience has taught me to dismiss and discount very little. I can say with unequivocal certainty that you and those who follow you are in grave danger."

Dispassionately, Elizabeth recounted the tale of Gregor Ingram's vision for the new America. "Zavora, whatever else he may be, this man is insane and my enemies will use him to help destroy me. They will not be deterred by reason or obedience to any law. This man is preaching the gospel of hatred and sedition. He has singled out your order as his first priority. He intends to destroy you as a way of getting to me."

"What are you asking me to do?" Asari asked. "If it's help that you want, then my one purpose is to provide it. We are not strangers to persecution."

Elizabeth shook her head adamantly. "What I require of you is simply this...warn your sisters of the menace. Take precautions and do nothing to aggravate the situation. No more talk shows, Zavora, and no further public mention of a golden witch or a lunar emissary. Any other course of action would be inflammatory and you've already had a taste of just how irrational and violent these people can be. If you do nothing to escalate this situation, it could well be that Ingram and his fanatics will fix upon something else to persecute."

Simpson lapsed into silence while Zavora pondered all that she had been told. Finally, the doctor nodded her reluctant agreement. "Women have always been the object of religious rage and fanaticism. We're an easy sex to persecute because, despite all of the purported changes that society has claimed to have made, women are still considered the dark, mysterious sex...conniving and manipulative. If there is a God, then women are his quintessential jokes...the ultimate victims."

Zavora glanced up at Elizabeth, her lips twisted in a morose grin that was part bitterness and part grim acceptance. "Did you know that the order of the Lunar Goddess is comprised of two hundred of the most accomplished women in New England? Doctors, lawyers, psychologists...representatives of every faction of society. Our order can boast two state senators and a congresswomen; this is, if they choose to publicly admit to belonging to a church that does not deify the popular version of God."

Zavora's tears had ceased now. A hard, detached intellectualism had entered in their place. "Despite everything that we've accomplished, we are still inevitably best to kill. All of our professional and intellectual pretences are exposed by one raving religious megalomaniac. Many of our members do not really subscribe to the Wiccan belief in the Goddess, though they love the rituals and the primitive pageantry that adorns many of the rites of celebration. In a sense, they feel affirmed and empowered because the old religion did not accept as gospel the notion that women are inherently inferior. Now, you ask me to just disabuse these women of that notion because a maniac had decided that we should again be thrust into the role of the conniving villainess."

Elizabeth sighed and gently caressed the doctor's wrist. "You're an intelligent, perceptive woman, Zavora Asari. Despite blatant attempts to subject you to ridicule and humiliation, you've acquitted yourself with grace and dignity. I'm trying to tell you that you won today, though it may feel as though you've been violated. It could be that your conduct has planted a seed of comprehension in the minds of those in a position to effect positive change. Halston came off sounding like a spiteful boor."

Asari shifted her gaze listlessly to the window. "If I've won, then the concept of victory is grossly overrated."

"Zavora, the true test of a revolutionary may be in knowing when her time has come. If the prevailing climate is detrimental to what your order represents, then step back into the shadows and wait for a more opportune moment. Gregor Ingram's insanity is too flagrant to be allowed to grow unchecked. He will be undone soon enough. Do not become a sorry subtext for his legacy."

Elizabeth waited. Zavora finally shifted her gaze to meet those incisive blue eyes. "Very well, I'll suspended the activities of the order and inform my sisters that they should maintain low profiles."

"Will you make the same promise?" Elizabeth persisted, sensing that Asari held her personal promise in high regard. Zavora nodded and Elizabeth leaned forward and kissed her cheek before rising to leave.

Unexpectedly, Asari sat up and tightly clutched Elizabeth's wrist, her eyes beaming a renewed vigor. "I ask one small request in return."

Elizabeth felt the furtive approach of an unseen shackle and tentatively allowed, "Very well."

"A lock of you hair." Asari asked with a crooked grin. Simpson grinned and gazed back at the other woman. Zavora explained, "The hair of a woman is believed to be a mantle of great power in many cultures. Germanic women would cut locks of their hair to serve as talismans for their warriors. You may not be an emissary of Artemis, but you are a being of extraordinary power."

Elizabeth regarded Zavora for several seconds, not certain why she felt such unaccountable reluctance to comply. Thrusting her seemingly foolish misgivings aside, she came forward and bowed her head. The wheaten tresses fell forward to cover her face, obscuring her view of Asari, who had pushed herself into a kneeling position, her eyes blazing triumphantly. From beneath her dressing gown, she removed her athame, a Wiccan ceremonial dagger that represented the air element. Gently pushing Elizabeth's head down, she deftly severed a four inch length of luxuriant curls. Elizabeth stood and Zavora offered her a warm smile of gratitude.

"I must leave, Zavora," she announced, bemused by the way that Asari clutched the lock of hair to her breast as though it might have been real gold. "Protect yourself, Zavora, and stay clear of Gregor Ingram."

Zavora nodded, though perhaps a little too eagerly to please Elizabeth. Frowning, she turned and walked toward the door. When she glanced back, Asari was folding the strands of hair and pushing them under her mattress.

Simpson quickly left the floor, granting Meyer a brief smile before moving briskly toward the elevator. The policeman returned her smile and immediately forgot that she had ever been there, though the mysterious blond would often be the center of his dreams in the weeks and months to follow.

Again in her car, Elizabeth left the city, heading west toward a commitment that could no longer be avoided. Though still uncertain how her enemies intended to extract their revenge, she was confident that she had successfully sabotaged one aspect of their scheme.

If Zavora Asari did nothing to provoke Gregor Ingram and his lunatic faction, it was just possible that the intended conflict with the new order of the Silver Goddess would never materialize.

As Elizabeth Simpson was soon to discover, if Zavora Asari was not prepared to undertake some provocative action, Gregor Ingram would be happy to do so on her behalf.

Chapter Seven

1

Though separated by a continent and an intellectual gulf even wider, there was much that Karnalla Mansley and Zavora Asari shared in common. Though neither was aware of the fact, both were primary characters in the nightmares that plagued both Elizabeth and Nathaniel Simpson. Karnalla, though not on an intellectual level with Asari, could have more than held her own with the older woman in a discourse on the subject of women and their roles, real and imagined, in 21st century sexual politics.

What Zavora had been forced to learn through pain and public humiliation, Mansley had gleaned through simple feminine instinct. For Karnalla, the world was governed by a small number of unvarying maxims. The first of these went something to the effect that men were infantile pigs who must be suffered because they wielded the lion's share of all power. The second sprang directly from the reality of the first. Most men were sad amalgams of ego and contrived machismo on the surface beneath which there could be found the inevitable core of insecurity. This attenuating core could be found and exploited with just the right amount of careful probing. The final maxim (and for Karnalla, the most profound) was that a powerful, assertive woman was like a scythe; a gleaming lethal thing that mowed through male-erected obstacles as if they were stalks of wheat.

Karnalla Mansley was more equipped to deal with the Gregor Ingram's of the world than Zavora Asari could ever hope to be. Unencumbered by any sense of propriety or concern for how she was perceived (good or evil were meaningless labels for Karnalla) she would have attacked Gregor's Puritanism tooth and nail.

Mansley had long ago learned the bitter realities of being a woman in a culture that pretended to revere beauty, but in fact reviled it. Mansley thoroughly grasped all of these things and possessed one other bit of insight that Asari was never likely to obtain. Mansley knew how to adapt to her second class status and knew precisely how to transcend it.

2

The offices of the Gabriel Sarum modeling agency were abuzz with the high-voltage excitement that one would normally associate with a royal visit. Receptionists scurried about the chic hallways like infatuated schoolgirls, intoxicated with excitement. It was rare for the legendary Karnalla Mansley to deign to visit the agency. Her views regarding the business end of the industry were the stuff of myth.

In a vogue interview, Mansley had once remarked, "These fashion agents are all deplorable to a one...necessary jackals. I'm forced to suffer these monotonous dullards, but I'll do so as infrequently as possible."

Such vitriolic remarks did nothing to deflate her popularity. Quite the contrary...the more caustic and abusive Karnalla became, the higher she was held in public esteem as though being obnoxious was a laudable quality. So despite her constant declarations of contempt for the agency that had elevated her to mega stardom, Karnalla Mansley's presence was still greeted with an almost delirious excitement. Karnalla could well be perceived as royalty in that she was considered the undisputed queen of beauty...the physical epitome of all that God had intended women to be.

The only person in the Sunset Blvd. offices not delirious over Mansley's imminent arrival was the agency's founder and owner, Gabriel Sorem. He viewed Karnalla's unexpected visit with a nebulous trepidation that set his stomach to roll. Sorem was a fastidious man, whose keen eye for beauty and natural grasp of the mechanics of marketing had helped establish his agency as the most lucrative operation of its type in North America. Sorem had been enough of a visionary to spearhead the mass exodus of the fashion elite from dreary and dying New York to a still vital Los Angeles in the first decade of the 21st century. He had been assiduous and diligent in his search for new and fresh talent to titillate the American obsession with beauty.

Then he had discovered Karnalla Mansley.

She had been seventeen when he first learned of her, stunned to wonder by the photographs that had captured her as she shyly accepted the title of Miss Connecticut. Even then, her beauty had been a thing of improbable proportion...each feature a concise and visually perfect compliment to the other. Then, she had been an ingenuous girl with only a rudimentary understanding of the power that potentially accompanied such staggering beauty. Sorem had shrewdly approached the parents first, informing the parents that theirs was a daughter with a rare gift...one that could prove lucrative beyond estimate. The gleam of avarice that had flickered in their eyes assured Sorem that he was about to inherit a percentage of that potential. Mansley had exploded on the beauty and fashion world with the impact of a mega range nuclear device. With her emergence as an unprecedented superstar had come the birth of a worldlier, cynical Mansley. This Karnalla was shrewd and cunning in a primitive manner that Sorem could not help but admire. Upon reaching the age of nineteen, she had quickly realized that good old mom and dad were not always motivated by her best interests. In the blink of an eye, they were both divested of their position as keeper of her rapidly growing personal fortune.

Mansley was predatory and ruthless in dealing with her sycophants, becoming savage and cruel if she suspected one of even the slightest perceived betrayal. Sorem knew relatively little about Karnalla's obsession with Orienne (whom he had dubbed the black pariah). Her lover was a topic that Mansley had adamantly refused to discuss. The one time that a press secretary had made the mistake of mentioning the woman's name in Mansley's presence; she had been subjected to a profanity-spattered verbal assault that had left her ashen and shaking.

Gabriel grinned while recalling the episode, but he had been forced to suffer giant-sized portions of embarrassment as a consequence of Mansley's public debacles. Though he would never have expressed the opinion in the presence of another living soul, Sorem considered Mansley to be nothing more than a spoiled, petulant little bitch. Her physical beauty was balanced in perfect proportion by her spiritual ugliness. Sorem suffered her tirades and increasingly outrageous behavior because she was the Midas woman of the era.

Ah but the day was fast approaching when he would be able to tell Karnalla and all of the other preening peacocks to take their collagen, saline and chromium polluted bodies and jump into the Pacific. Soon...but not quite yet...not until he had reached his projected comfort zone where he could eschew the fourteen percent commission.

Gabriel sighed in dreamy anticipation and glanced impatiently at his watch. Mansley's visit filled him with disquiet. He could not recall the last time that she had come here without being summoned. Just this morning, he had learned of other things that only increased his level of anxiety. For years, Karnalla had surrounded herself with a retinue of leeches to help celebrate her orgies of debauchery. Her life had become a seemingly intentional rollercoaster of self-destruction.

To monitor her descent and insure that Karnalla would remain a viable cash cow for as long as possible, Sorem had hired one of these leeches to serve as his spy. Zacharias had been his name and his reports had been delivered in a rambling, disconnected monologue that still managed to convey an appalling account of sex and drug abuse. Perhaps these tales were exaggerated because the imbecile believed that this was what Sorem had wanted to hear. Karnalla displayed none of the symptoms of chronic drug abuse. If anything, her beauty had gained a timeless quality that made it seem all the more perfect.

Nor did the nightly debauchery have an adverse effect on her performance as an elite model and so Sorem had been content not to intervene. Four nights ago, Zacharias had informed Sorem, in a whiny, petulant voice, that the gravy train had abruptly been derailed. Returning from an assignment, Mansley had sailed into her Hollywood hills mansion like a living, breathing hurricane.

Her fury had been immutable and by the time it had played itself out, her manicured lawn had been littered with shattered possession, milling freeloaders and most startling of all, a sprinkling of party drugs.

When it became evident that Karnalla's actions had been more than a sporadic outburst of her legendary temper, the sycophants had all drifted away, though not before collecting what salvageable drugs they could.

Zacharias' antic dote was not without its disturbing undertones. Karnalla Mansley represented the pinnacle of an inverted pyramid. Upon her proud and defiant shoulders was perched a multi-billion dollar empire. Gabriel was keenly aware that the impetuous bitch could bring the entire thing crashing down with one ill-considered public blunder and pressed Zacharias into his service as a personal spy.

In the time between Karnalla's house-cleaning and her impending visit that unruly madness that had come to symbolize her life had completely vanished. Zacharias informed Sorem that Mansley would return from her daily sessions and did not venture out of her estate until the next morning. During these four days, she does not receive a single visitor.

"It's as though she cloistered herself in there," Zacharias had remarked with a hint of incredulity in his gratingly shrill voice.

The intercom disturbed Sorem's reverie. With a smoldering anger, Sorem stabbed at the button, but before his secretary could utter a word, Karnalla Mansley strode brusquely into his office and slammed the door behind her. Sorem rose to greet Mansley, but she impatiently waved for him to remain seated.

"It's a pleasure as always, Karnalla," Sorem declared flatly, his mordant tone making it clear that it was anything but pleasant. There was something about her restive manner and her constantly darting eyes that reminded Gabriel Sorem of a cat on the verge of open panic. He briefly entertained the notion that she might be strung out, but then her gaze fell upon him, lucid and incisive.

"Cut the bullshit, Gabriel. The only thing you're ever happy to see are my royalty cheques," she growled in an offhand, distracted way that only deepened Sorem's unease. Her bellicose manner sounded forced and half-hearted.

"Very well, Karnalla," he ventured carefully, glancing at the VDT display of her day's itinerary. "I suppose there is a good reason why you are here and not at the Goliath session?"

"Fuck the Goliath session!" she spat disgustedly and then smiled at his reaction to her vulgarity. "It shocks you, Gabriel...when I say fuck." She drew the expletive out as though deriving great pleasure from uttering the word. Sorem said nothing, but could not disguise the fact that the incongruity of her spirit and her beauty never failed to unsettle him.

"Again, is there a reasonable explanation for why you've reneged on your contract with Goliath?" he reiterated curtly.

Karnalla watched him without replying for several moments, her eyes alight with contemptuous disdain. "I have no intention of honoring the Goliath commitment...or any other contractual obligation for that matter."

"That's...that's preposterous," Sorem sputtered. "Of course you'll honor your contracts." He searched her face for some hint of perverse levity. Discerning none, Gabriel experienced the onset of intense panic. Karnalla stood and began to drift about the room. Gabriel's eyes were drawn to her incredibly long legs, most of which were on glorious display beneath her chocolate suede miniskirt. "I've come to tell you that I'm finished, Gabriel. The gravy train has rolled into the terminal...all free-loaders disembark."

Sorem's face had gone plum red. "Let's be calm, Karnalla. Is there some specific problem with the Goliath campaign? Whatever they are, I'm sure that they can be rectified and..."

"You're not listening, you officious little prick!" Mansley bellowed so loudly that Gabriel actually flinched. Striding over and leaning across his desk, she rasped between clenched teeth, "I will never work again...never debase myself for a fucking dollar again!"

Gabriel sagged back into his chair, his mind reeling as though he had glanced down to discover the solid ground beneath his feet had suddenly vanished. He was not sure what he had expected from her visit, but it had certainly not been this catastrophe. "Please, Karnalla, we currently have forty different signed contracts to honor. I'm only asking that you take a moment to reflect upon the legal ramifications of such an impulsive action."

Karnalla laid back her head and uttered a sardonic laughter edged with a lunatic indifference. When her eyes fell upon her agent they were devoid of mirth and Sorem realized that she had erected a wall of intractability that he would never surmount. "The majority of those contracts contain an escape clause and you're going to exercise them. As for the rest of them...find out what penalties are involved and pay them."

"I think I have the right to ask you why? Why this mindless insistence on following a path of self-destruction?"

Now Mansley offered Sorem a genuine smile, an expression of rare and glorious beauty. "What you call self-destruction, I choose to think of as liberation. As to why...I think you have no right to any sort of explanation. Quite frankly, I made you a fucking fortune...paid for your home, your car and the pompous rags on your fucking scrawny ass. Don't dare insult my intelligence by suggesting that I'm obligated to you for anything. Even if I was inclined to provide you with some reason for my decision, a greedy troll like you would have no fucking clue what I was talking about!"

Shaking with fury, Sorem's façade of decorum finally shattered. "You're a despicable, self-absorbed ungrateful little bitch!"

Mansley tossed her ebony mane and blew Sorem a kiss. "You're absolutely right about that, Gabriel. Now be a good dog and arrange for a press conference. It's time to break the news to my adoring public."

3

The ensuing press conference was total and unrestrained pandemonium. An ashen-faced Sorem had read from a brief prepared statement, while Karnalla had sat beside him, her exquisite face closed and inscrutable. The collective reaction of stunned shock had given way to a deluge of hysterical questions. Karnalla had responded with a derisive laughter and had stalked from the room, leaving a beleaguered Sorem to face the tumult.

Away from the glare of the media, Karnalla's façade of casual disinterest had dissolved. Suddenly frantic, she felt desperate to escape the city with its unrelenting need to uncover every minute detail of her private life. Tucking her mass of black curls up under a baseball cap and donning black glasses and a denim jacket, she fled through an exit to a service alley. There, she climbed into her nondescript Surroca and sped south.

As she drove, Karnalla tried to reflect upon the upheaval that had overwhelmed her life in the past week, though introspection was something that she was loath to indulge in whenever it could be avoided. It had been less than eight days before when, maudlin and plagued by the ghost of her beloved Orienne, Karnalla had sat naked in a hot tub behind a locked bedroom door. In the house beyond, she could distantly hear the sounds of the nightly revelry. Though she had been here for over two hours, her absence had gone unnoticed. In her left hand, she clutched a bottle of Chablis. On the rim of the tub, gleaming silently on the Mexican ceramic tiles, lay an eight inch straight razor. Karnalla stared fixedly at the lethal silver edge, trying to summon up the courage or the requisite amount of self-loathing to seize it up and set it about its work. The defiant, obstreperous Karnalla screamed for reason, insisting that what she was contemplating was the coward's road. In sharp counterpoint, the child-like Mansley implored her body to find a surcease for the immutable grief that would give her no peace. Beneath the thin veneer of physical perfection, Karnalla was certain that her soul was undergoing an irreversible desiccation...a spiritual cancer that only bodily death could terminate.

Absently, she drained her glass and refilled it with the fluid dexterity of a practiced drunk. Leaning forward, she snatched up the razor, turning it over in her hands, mesmerized by its deadly beauty. One brutal and final slice and the unrelenting misery of her hollow existence would be over. ' _Such a death would be appropriate_ ,' Karnalla thought with a twinge of bitter irony. Had the world not deified Marilyn Monroe after her suicide...transmogrifying an actress of limited talent into a legend. Karnalla did not doubt for a moment that her being discovered in a tub of vermillion water would confer upon her the same lofty status as though such an ending was well-deserved for the curse of beauty. Mansley had no doubt about her true status amongst those who claimed to worship her. She was astute enough to realize that the world loved to raise people to the highest of pinnacles. Soon, however, they quickly tired of their idols and yearned for the days when they were sent tumbling back to earth...broken and humiliated.

"So why give them the satisfaction?" a soft voice inquired amiably. Startled, Karnalla's head jerked up and she dropped the straight razor into the roiling water. It fell to the bottom, the cutting edge coming to rest against her ankle.

The owner of the melodic voice was leaning against the marble vanity that ran the entire length of one wall. The woman was slightly shorter than Karnalla, with golden hair and arresting eyes of the deepest blue. She seemed to exude an aura of strength and serenity that quickly muted Karnalla's smoldering anger. "How did you get in here?"

The woman merely smiled, an expression so warm and compelling that Mansley's breath caught in her chest. "I'm here. The particulars are not necessarily important. I'm here because you summoned me...or more precisely, because your rash actions drew me to you."

"My actions? What would you know about my actions?" Karnalla stammered, her color deepening as though she was a small child who had been caught doing something naughty. She wanted to stand, to meet the woman's gaze on the level, but was suddenly conspicuous of her nudity. The disadvantage annoyed Mansley and she snapped, "Even if you did know what I intended to do, there isn't a fucking thing that you can do about it."

The stranger's smile assumed a rather disdainful twist. She extended her right hand with the palm turned downward. What followed transpired so quickly that Karnalla was not quite sure just what she had witnessed. The discarded razor seemed to leap from the tub and slap into the intruder's outstretched palm. She regarded it benignly and closed her long fingers around the pearl-inlaid handle.

Karnalla winced, tensing in anticipation of the flow of blood that must surely follow. None did and soon the intruder opened her palm and allowed the razor to clatter to the tiles where it lay like the twisted corpse of some long dead animal. "I know that you are gazing along a road that only a fool would think to follow. Are you really so obtuse as to believe that self-destruction will atone for your perceived duplicity in the death of your lover. I can personally assure you that it will not."

Mansley surged out of the water with a shrill cry, the fact of her nudity rendered inconsequential by her towering rage. She sprung at her intruder like a leopard intent on killing its quarry in a bloody rending of flesh. The intruder easily avoided the flurry of clumsy blows and finally seized Karnalla's wrists in a surprisingly powerful right hand. The two women regarded each other, the intruder's eyes still amicable while Karnalla's blazed like burning anthracite. With the slightest exertion, the intruder slowly bent Mansley's wrists backwards, her blue eyes intently searching Karnalla's face. Mansley gasped in pain while her knees seemed to buckle in slow motion. She knelt on the tile with her wrists now bent painfully backwards and glowered up at the intruder, her lips twisted in a malefic grimace of enmity. Her full breasts heaved and her breath came in racketing gasps, but she stubbornly refused to be cowed. The blond stared down upon her, the lovely, erudite face still placid. "I've not come to harm you...only to talk. Do you promise to cease your futile thrashing?"

A throaty growl issued from Karnalla's full lips, but eventually her contentious glare gave way to a speculative expression. The intruder stepped back and released Mansley's wrists, extending her hand in an offer of assistance.

After a second's hesitation, Karnalla sighed and allowed herself to be helped up. She was three inches taller than the stranger, but felt small and oddly inadequate in the stranger's substantial presence. Mansley rubbed absently at her wrists, not bothering to seek a robe to cover her nudity. The blond regarded Mansley with a gaze of frank appraisal. Something in that open gaze, framed almost as a challenge, evoked something foreign and primitive in Karnalla, who turned her face slightly to the side, inclined her chin and arched her back to achieve the full effect of her awesome beauty. The need to flaunt herself before this beautiful stranger baffled Mansley, but she found herself nonetheless helpless to resist.

The intruder merely smiled. "Karnalla, you need not convince me that you are a rare and precious beauty."

Mansley blushed and turned away, feeling utterly foolish.

"I've asked you what you want," she muttered gruffly, though her irritation was obviously feigned.

"Do you not know me, Karnalla?" the intruder inquired softly.

"Yes," Mansley responded quietly. "At least, I know your face...from the dreams."

"Yes, from the dreams," the other woman echoed, her voice low and distracted. She placed a hand on Karnalla's shoulder. The raven-haired beauty stiffened and then surrendered to the lulling-warmth that now suffused her body. "Karnalla. I've come to help you find the absolution that you seek for Orienne's death."

Suddenly Mansley defenses of cynicism and disdain eroded in the blink of an eye. Hot tears of shame and immutable loss streamed over the sharp cheekbones and her lean body shuddered with convulsive sobs. The intruder came forward and enfolded Mansley in her arms, pressed her face into the damp mass of black curls and whispered, "There is no need to carry your grief and guilt like a millstone any longer. You can redeem yourself and scour away the poison that has infected your soul."

"I killed her!" Karnalla sobbed wretchedly, her voice cracking and inconsolable in the enormity of her loss. "She is the only person who actually loved me for more than this skin and the money I made...the only one! I destroyed her as though she was something petty and disposable. I am adored...but not loved, and because of Orienne, I don't deserve to be."

"At least, you've convinced yourself as much," the blond woman remarked dispassionately. Karnalla continued to wail, but her posture indicated that she was listening. "Since her death, you've slipped into this morose torpor...a morass of guilt, despair and self-loathing. You've raised edifices of personal destruction on her behalf. If she could look down upon you now, drunk and contemplating suicide, do you think she would derive a malicious pleasure from your plight?"

She spun Mansley about to face her and clutching her shoulders, shook the taller woman briskly. "Have you not defamed her memory by willfully making a shambles of the life that she has been denied?

Now the intruder's tone was fraught with a reproach that cut Karnalla like the sting of a lash.

"I just want her back." Mansley exclaimed, her voice a pitiable whimper.

"That will not happen," the blond insisted emphatically. "However, you can reclaim your own life and dignify her memory."

Mansley shook her head doubtfully, her tears subsiding, but not the excruciating sense of loss that had inspired them. "I'm nothing. I'm a fucking commodity and as far as everyone is concerned, that's all I'm good for."

"Have you not done everything in your power to validate that belief?" the woman inquired. "If this lifestyle has imprisoned and denigrated you to fall so low, why not shrug it off?"

"It's not that simple."

"For someone of your strength, it is. The people on the other side of this door, are they your friends?

Karnalla uttered a particularly bitter laugh. She thought of this retinue as nothing more than functionaries whose purpose was to corroborate her own wretched existence. "They're fucking leeches!"

"Then you begin there by demonstrating that you possess the fortitude to face solitude. You are no less tangible for not being seen by the human eye or framed in the lens of a camera." Karnalla blinked, wiping away tears with the heel of her palm. This stranger had just expressed a concept that was alien to everything she had come to believe, but those incisive blue eyes would not be denied and she found herself nodding.

"I want you to eschew everything that has caused you pain and remorse." Her eyes shifted from Karnalla to the lavish décor that surrounded the pair, settling on the black marble tub and the ceramic tiles that Mansley had selected over the course of several trips to Mexico. "You've accrued a vast fortune and all of the trappings of wealth, including a vulgar form of power. Despite all of this, I would hazard to say that your beauty has failed to bring you even the smallest measure of joy."

Karnalla simply shook her head. The act she had been contemplating made denial pointless.

"Then you are compelled to shed it as though it was a diseased skin."

"Then why have you come?" On this occasion the question was more of a desperate entreaty than a petulant demand.

"To give you the opportunity to make restitution for the life that was lost. To offer a simple choice; continue to wallow in misery and guilt until the last trace of your humanity dies...or help me."

Something flickered in Karnalla's dark eyes. "Help you? How?"

"Like you, my rash behavior cost the lives of those who loved me. It is possible that I might restore one of those lives." Karnalla watched the blond woman closely, for the first time discerning a vulnerability that touched something in Mansley's soul that had long been dormant. The tremulous quality in the other woman's voice spoke of a loss that could well rival her own. The deep blue eyes found hers and she experienced an electric moment of connection that recalled the first time she had set eyes upon her beloved Orienne. "There is nothing that I can do to bring her back and no one seems able to comprehend how completely useless that makes me feel."

"Karnalla, your first obligation is to yourself. If resurrecting Orienne is your sole objective for remaining alive, then you are condemned to failure and inevitable and incessant misery. I hold out the chance to redeem yourself. Other than your spiritual cancer, what do you have to lose by making the effort?" The intruder fell silent, her limpid eyes set squarely upon Karnalla, affecting her like a palpable touch. The woman was extending an offer of genesis; an opportunity to instill meaning in her hollow, ugly life.

"I'll help you," Mansley agreed, though still uncertain as to what she had consented to do. The intruder's smile was a radiant reward that made Karnalla's heart flutter. Abruptly, the woman began to gutter as though she was a simple manifestation of light. Mansley reacted to this startling development with something akin to outright panic. She suddenly wanted to enfold this specter in her arms to prevent her departure, though she correctly deduced that this would prove futile and ultimately humiliating. In the seconds before the intruder vanished, she offered Mansley one final piece of advice. "Remember, if you are to ever restore your dignity, you must jettison every vestige of your old life. Once you've accomplished this, find a requiem and I'll come to you."

The image flared once and was gone. Karnalla grasped for the intruder like a drowning woman reaching for a preserver. From somewhere nearby there came the light tinkle of shattering glass and...

Karnalla glanced up at the odd fawn-colored sky that hung over LA like a penumbra. She had been told that the sky had once been a breath-taking shade of cobalt blue, though she greeted the notion with some degree of skepticism. Just what had she experienced that night? Her inured, cynical nature had dismissed the episode, but the damned straight razor had precluded surrendering to skepticism.

Karnalla had dropped the wine glass, which shattered dramatically on the saltillo tiles, and her eyes had snapped open like a broken window shade. Of course the room was empty because she had just experienced some sort of hallucination or extremely vivid dream. It might well have been possible to cling to that comfortable delusion had her eyes not happened upon the twisted remains of the straight razor that lay on the edge of the hot tub.

Somehow, she had managed to suppress the scream that had threatened to burst from her lungs like lava. Karnalla had spent the next hour in unmoving meditation, her emotions raging back and forth between terror and jubilation like a frenetic pendulum. She had slowly dried herself, dressed and then entered the living area of her mansion like a breaking typhoon (as a slightly dazed Zacharias would later attest), scattering semi-lucid partiers in a hundred directions. The group fled like rats from a burning warehouse, leaving Mansley to a night of solitude for the first time since Orienne's death.

Though not easily given to fear, Karnalla dreaded being alone above all else. She was not certain if the walls would close in and crush her to powder or that the vengeful spirit of her lover would materialize to extract a measure of revenge. She could not express her terror in comprehensible terms, but whatever the reason, she dare not spend a single night without having at least one person nearby.

The visitor had expunged that fear, replacing it with a bolstering sense of purpose. The first night had been difficult, but the subsequent nights had been a little easier than the one that preceded it. Today, she had mustered the courage to act on the remainder of the stranger's advice. Discarding her role as the quintessential beauty had been like shrugging a massive boulder from her shoulders. That sense of liberation was very much like rebirth and for the first time since that awful day in Monte Carlo, Karnalla thought that she perceived a glimmer of hope on the horizon of her future.

4

In a Cincinnati hotel room, Elizabeth thrashed wildly about the king-sized bed of her Holiday Inn hotel suite, her mind locked in a dream state that shared only a passing resemblance with its human counter part.

Her long, lean arms suddenly splayed out to one side and her hands clenched into fists, the powerful fingers actually tearing through the woven fabric of the mattress. Eyes closed, she pushed her head into the pillow while her back arched as though in the grip of a violent convulsion.

Abruptly, her eyes snapped open and she leapt to her feet as though the mattress had become a bed of writhing snakes. She sagged against the wall with her flimsy satin nightgown plastered to her body with perspiration, waiting for the vivid dream to release her from its grasp. Finally, Elizabeth sighed and settled into one of the wingbacks that seemed to be an obligatory fixture in North American hotel rooms.

Since the fateful night that Cynara had plunged her vile dagger into Elizabeth's still-human heart, Simpson had experienced a myriad of bizarre wonders. None of them could rival the oddity of the dream, though she suspected that the word dream was, in this case, an innocuous misnomer. The sensation of duality was dizzying as she watched herself waltz through a Byzantine choreography with a strange woman whose extraordinary beauty made her own seem lusterless by comparison. She had listened in incredulity as her alter ego had spoken with the misguided creature as though they were intimately familiar.

She had offered the woman-child counsel that Elizabeth could not decipher and then made a plea of help that had shaken Simpson to her very foundations. She glanced down at her hands, only partially surprised to find that they were shaking. The dark implications of the dream were terrifying especially in juxtaposition to her previous dream. Ultimately, another of the unfolding drama's central characters had been revealed, though her role remained hidden behind a confusing veil of obscurity.

"Karnalla Mansley." Elizabeth murmured the name softly with the solemnity of one reciting a mystical incantation. The name held no meaning for Simpson, though she knew with unequivocal certainty that it soon would.

Perhaps the most disturbing aspect of the dream had been the pervasive sense of duality that colored the entire episode. Elizabeth was certain that the nocturnal experience was being shared...that Mansley was experiencing the same dramatic emotions somewhere else in the real world and that she was not just a complex fabrication of Elizabeth's subconscious mind. If this was the case, then Elizabeth had not experienced a dream, but rather a shared augury...a foreshadowing of convergence where both women's destinies must inevitably intersect. Frustrated by her inability to penetrate the mystery, Elizabeth closed her eyes and uttered a rare epithet.

Karnalla Mansley...who was this beautiful hieroglyph? Elizabeth had discerned a deep-rooted desperation steadily corroding the woman's fragile spirit. Had there been an element of exploitation to her alter-ego's intervention in Mansley's contemplation of suicide? Simpson thought there was and this suggested that she would soon abandon her stringent sense of morality to gain whatever advantage Mansley's misery might hold. This last horrifying thought prompted Elizabeth to clutch her shoulders and tremble violently.

Following that dark line of progression, Karnalla was to be the victim of some treachery to which Elizabeth would be a party. She had always expected that there would be reprisals for Cynara and had been rather surprised that they had not come swiftly. There had been a time when she had harbored the foolish delusion that her enemies might actually forego vengeance. In light of what she had come to suspect, Elizabeth now realized just how fatuous that delusion really was.

Simpson now saw that she had miscalculated in another regard as well in the sense that she had failed to anticipate the form in which the expected retribution might come. Elizabeth had always expected a savage and vulgar attack aimed directly at her...a fiery display of supernatural pyrotechnics intended to reduce her to ash. Instead, she found herself confronted by a baffling and insidious plot so complex and intricate that she could not even begin to guess at its direction and purpose.

She could, however, sense that time was becoming critical in her search for David. Once the final few elements of the puzzle fell into place, her every breath would be consumed by a grim struggle just to survive. If she was to die without discovering what fate had befallen David, her life would have been a vain and dismal failure.

An anxiety gripped her heart then and she fled the hotel room, checking out and retrieving her Jaguar at a dead sprint. In less than thirty minutes, she was racing through the outskirts of Cincinnati and pushing west as fast as prudence allowed. Elizabeth was dimly aware of the burning hulks of derelict cars flashing by in her rearview mirror as she raced through the forbiddingly dark streets. To Elizabeth, these sporadic fires symbolized the conflagration that stood poised to overwhelm her own tottering world.

5

Contayza sat in the reception area of her doctor's office, absently leafing through the latest copy of Vogue magazine. On the cover, Karnalla Mansley's flawless face shone with dark splendor, her limpid eyes glowing like twin ebony suns. Her equally glorious body was barely concealed behind a thin film of gauzy chiffon. For some reason that Contayza could not fathom, she suddenly found Karnalla's ubiquitous face intolerable and cast the magazine back into the rack with an irritable frown. The she flicked her gaze at the wall clock which informed her that her appointment was now twenty minutes overdue. She shifted her weight in the contoured plastic chair, grimacing at how arduous the simplest of movement had become. Though she never would have shared this with another living soul, there were many aspects of pregnancy that Contayza thoroughly detested...the frumpy maternity clothing and the morning nausea foremost amongst them.

These frequent visits weren't really necessary. Tayza's natural percipience told her that the child was developing normally, but Nathaniel found great comfort in modern medicine. ' _So be it_ ,' she thought ruefully, there were times when a man had to be indulged, even if they were being utterly silly.

The night of her mother-in-law's departure had been an uncharacteristically tense one in the Simpson household. When Tayza had attempted to engage him in conversation, Nath had been reticent and uncommunicative. His brow had been clouded with anxiety, but whatever its source, he had chosen not to confide in her. She had no doubt that Elizabeth was the primary cause of his disquiet, but given her own relief at having her mother-in-law gone, Contayza was hardly the one to commiserate with his concern.

Perhaps a debt of gratitude was owed Elizabeth, but Contayza's cultural roots were far too deep to extirpate. Despite what Nath, in his naiveté, might believe, Elizabeth Simpson was still a creature of darkness. Contayza was familiar enough with the ways of evil to know that a demon's nature could not be banished by simple wishful ness.

Nath's anger had abated somewhat by the next morning, but Tayza could discern something in his expression that was far more worrisome than anger...disappointment. Her rejection of his mother had hurt him in an elemental way that could well have planted the first seeds of discord between the two. Though Elizabeth was gone, her formidable presence hung over the two like a penumbra.

"Ms Prowzi, Dr Raltman will see you now," the receptionist announced with a bright smile. Contayza nodded and pushed herself to her feet, grateful to shift positions. She followed the wispy blond down a short corridor and into the office suite.

Contayza settled into another plush chair and folded her hands primly in her lap. In the adjacent examination room, she could make out the faint murmurs of Raltman's low, reassuring voice. The doctor was a good pediatrician, though Contayza would have preferred a Romany midwife.

Perhaps Nath was justified in his resentment, but Tayza was not without her own resentments if the truth be known, though she kept them well concealed. Now, as she waited for news of her first child, she paraded them forth and catalogued them the way a miser might count his horde of gold in the dead of night. The most prominent was the loss of her culture. She cherished Nath for his sensitivity and intelligence, but she secretly despised Boston and its snobbish pretensions, only agreeing to live here because the city had yet to be trampled by rampant violence. Still, it was a poor substitute for Romania with its rugged and primitive heartland. The soaring majesty of the Carpathians was never far from her mind and her itinerant's soul cried out for a return to the free wandering ways of her youth.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, she found herself on the verge of tears, nearly succumbing to the sorrow of all that she had lost. Grimly, she fought them back only by taking a solemn vow on the name of her ancestors. They would not be forgotten. The moment she left this office, she would stop by a stationary store and purchase a journal...a heavy, leather-bound model strong enough to contain the hundreds of lives that she would commit to its pages.

The prospect filled her with a burgeoning jubilation and she managed to quell the fall of tears. Her account of the family history would commence where Rebecca's had ended, detailing the triumph and tribulation of her life and commemorating the indomitable spirit that had sustained them through so much heartbreak.

When Zoya was born (Tayza had unilaterally selected the name, believing that it was her right) she would teach the girl everything about her heritage and lineage. When she was old enough to understand, Tayza would take her daughter back to a now free Romania and retrace the steps of those who had died on the road to Chevru. Not once did it occur to her that she was constructing plans that did not include Nathaniel.

Contayza loathed the mind-numbing, materialistic techno-culture of America. Tayza would instill her Gypsy soul in Zoya, insuring that the girl would grow to be a mistress of the lore. Zoya would be an American citizen, but her spirit would be purely Gypsy.

The door to the office suite swung open, startling Tayza out of her revelry. Dr Raltman was a tall, stooped man in his late fifties. He wore a gaunt, besieged expression and looked as though he might be the world's most prolific consumer of unfiltered cigarettes. Raltman was an amiable, compassionate man who possessed the rare gift of being able to quell his patient's anxieties irrespective of how dire their predicament might be. When he spoke of children, his watery blue eyes glistened with sincerity and Contayza knew that a small portion of his soul would die along with every child he failed to save.

"Ms. Prowzi, you're doing well I trust?" he inquired with a faint trace of a Brooklyn Jewish accent. He crossed the room with his feet and arms moving like a stumbling gantry and seemed to slump into his chair.

"Other than feeling that I belong in a marina, I'd say I'm feeling rather good," Tayza replied tartly, though she beamed a lovely smile.

"That's one discomfort that I'm afraid even science can't alleviate," Raltman returned warmly, all the while pecking away at his keyboard to summon her file and most recent test results. "What I can do is assure you that your child is developing exactly as she should. The fetal probe reveals that the cell structure and organ systems are all evolving normally. It looks as though you're going to give birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl."

Contayza feigned a relieved delight, though her percipience told her as much every day that the child grew inside her. Raltman's gaze shifted from his VDT to Contayza, his eyes narrowing in appraisal. "How are you faring?"

Tayza smiled radiantly, her dark eyes sparkling. "Good."

"No nausea...the new drugs are wonderful for combating nausea."

Contayza shook her head emphatically. "No drugs...I can tolerate a little queasiness."

Raltman pursed his lips, but refrained from marching out the facts about modern medicinal safety standards. He knew enough about Contayza to know that she would not be easily swayed from her conviction that medicine should be regarded with a measure of mistrust.

Contayza watched him from behind her sooty lashes, suddenly cognizant of the room's temperature. She shivered violently as an invisible current of cold air passed over her flesh. She blinked and then uttered a strangled gasp. Raltman was still slumped over his display terminal, but now a spectral image hovered above him, its huge baleful eyes locked directly upon her.

The apparition vaguely resembled the doctor, but its skin was as taught as a drum head and its eyes gleamed argent snapped with an iridescent, malefic red. Tayza flicked an eye to the door, gauging her chances of reaching the hall. Her heritage precluded the possibility of dismissing the incident as a mere hallucination. What she was seeing was all too real and its presence signified the onset of something momentous and horrible.

As if in affirmation of this, the thing began to speak. Contayza refused to flinch under the vile reek of its breath. "Mark me well, woman...your relief is misplaced."

Then it fell silent, regarding Contayza with its terrible, alien eyes. She felt compelled to tear her gaze away, but instinctively knew that this would be a terrible error.

"What...what do you want?" she stammered, dreading the answer.

"I've come to warn you of a peril that you've already come to suspect," the specter informed her. Raltman continued to stare at his monitor, his eyes vacant and unblinking, totally oblivious to the vile alter-ego that floated above him. Contayza correctly surmised that the creature had brought time to a halt while the speaking demon conveyed its deadly admonition.

"You're speaking of Elizabeth!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening with incredulity.

"You were wise to mistrust her, though I doubt you've deduced the precise form of her treachery." A small part of her mind screamed that this thing was thoroughly vile and that its message was malicious fabrication. Its plea fell on deaf ears. Whatever the manifestation was, Contayza had been raised to be alert to the perils of placing any faith in demons.

"Be specific," she snapped, now more furious than terrified. The thing glowered, its grotesque, elongated features resolving themselves into a portrait of impatient irritation. "Why should I trust anything that you've told me?"

The thing guttered, reacting to Tayza's cynicism with a shrug of indifference and then its expression shifted into an icy grin that was all the more disturbing for its mock levity. "She covets the child, you know. Even now, she is weaving an intricate web to snatch it away from you. Do you not find it odd that her return would coincide with your pregnancy?"

The mention of her unborn child evoked a feeling of consuming panic so profound that she literally shook in its grasp. She leapt to her feet, sending the chair tumbling to the carpet. "That's a deplorable lie. Whatever else Elizabeth might be, she is incapable of harming her son. I know this...I know it!"

"As you say, but do you really know the entity that was once your husband's mother? Again, do you not find it odd that she has returned to your life as the birth of your first child approaches? Coincidence? Possibly, but only you can appraise the risks of ignoring this admonition. Yours is the freedom of choice...you may heed my advice or choose to ignore it."

"Why would Elizabeth want my child?" she demanded, though her eyes had begun to cloud with confusion. The speaking demon flashed another horrific grin, recognizing the flicker of doubt and capitalizing on it with the speed and deftness of a charging rhino.

"Your child is destined to become an exceptional human being, instilled with the extraordinary power that both parents possess. Elizabeth requires the child as a sacrifice of sorts in return for her former lover."

"Stillman?" Tayza blurted, bewildered by the insidious logic of the demon's message. Simpson had related the story of all that had transpired in the days leading up to Cynara working her iniquitous rite of transformation. When Elizabeth spoke of David Stillman, an expression of desperation and devastating loss stole over her face. The pain in her beautiful face had been too difficult to behold and Contayza had been forced to look away. In retrospect, Contayza knew that such pain often bred acts of desperation too incomprehensible for the average person to consider, but would Elizabeth steal her own grandchild. Surely not? Contayza could never believe that Elizabeth's love for Nathaniel was anything less than genuine.

"In return for Stillman's life, Elizabeth will deliver your child to the darkness, where she will become a queen ascendant...a demon the likes of which this wanton world has never known."

Contayza wanted to voice a vociferous denial, but found only bitter tears. She had already sensed that the child growing in her womb was extraordinary. "Your spawn will bring powers to her dark prince that would dwarf Cynara's. In her irrational need to find this inconsequential remnant of the past, this woman would turn your beloved daughter into an abomination. "Yes, she is to be a special child, Contayza." Those words were subtle indications of her intentions."

Contayza covered her eyes, shaking her head in negation, though her mind conjured the horrible image of the demon carrying her Zoya off in the dead of night while she wailed over an empty cradle.

"If you are to avert this fate," the speaking demon persisted somberly, "you have one recourse...destroy Elizabeth Simpson.

Contayza stiffened. "Do you know what you are asking of me?"

The apparition offered no reply.

"Even if I was inclined to do as you suggest, at the height of my power, the best I was capable of was merely enough to hurt Cynara. I lacked the power to destroy the demon. Intuition tells me that Elizabeth is more powerful than Cynara ever was. I've not used my telekinetic power since Chevru. For all I know, they may well be gone."

She stopped, breathing heavily. The rational part of her mind was appalled by the thread of their dialogue. The repudiation of the idea that she attempt to kill Elizabeth should have been automatic. Instead, she found herself discussing specific details of its viability.

"Perhaps you failed to defeat Cynara because you lacked the imagination...not the ability. You know the means by which she can be killed. Therefore, all that is required is the imagination to put that knowledge to use. As for the loss of power, I can assure you that they are only recumbent. Were you to exercise your power, you would find that they are greater than ever...augmented by the exceptional life-force growing within you.

Contayza pursed her lips, instinctively knowing that the thing had spoken the truth. After a moment, the apparition shrugged. "I have fulfilled my obligation by delivering this warning. It is not my place to advise what action you should take. You must follow your heart, but should you fail to heed my warning, prepare for the day when you find your daughter gone. If that day should come to pass, it will follow that the new champion of darkness will be your own begotten flesh."

Contayza could feel her face twist in an involuntary reaction to that unthinkable prospect. She was about to ask the speaking demon who had sent it when suddenly it shimmered and was gone.

Only watery-eyed, quite human doctor Raltman sat before her, still engrossed in his electronic files. He was obviously unaware of the extraordinary thing that had just transpired and Tayza wondered exactly how much real time had passed since the onset of her episode.

"I would say that everything is in perfect order," the doctor was saying. "It is unlikely that there will be any complications, but I'd still like to have you back in every three weeks." He glanced up then and the words froze in his throat. Contayza was sitting across from him, clutching the arms of his chair with white-knuckled intensity. Her beautiful face was ashen and sweat glistened on her smooth brow.

With deceptive speed, Raltman came around the desk and gently gripped Contayza's shoulders. "Do you feel faint Contayza?"

Marshalling all of her fading energy, she conjured a dazzling smile. "Really, I'm alright. Sometimes, if the mornings are particularly hot, I get a little bleary. A glass of water would probably help a lot."

Raltman scrutinized her closely for another moment. For one horrible instant, she felt certain that he was going to angrily accuse her of lying and demand the truth. Then he slowly rose and crossed to the water cooler, while she shivered in relief. She drank the offered water though she didn't feel at all thirsty. After repeatedly insisting that she was fine, Contayza fled the office. Moments later, she stood in the street taking in great gulps of hot, humid air. She thought of going home, dearly wanting to crash into her own bed and seek refuge in sleep, but understood that there was something that must be done first.

Chapter Eight

1

"The essence of spiritual purity is found in passivity, Jurgen. Violence and savage retaliation only degrade ones soul and cast negative influences over Karma. Retribution is the domain of the Gods and not the pursuit of men," Sambata advised, her tone somewhat exasperated. Gerchnau merely nodded and offered his mentor a distracted grin.

Sambata sighed, knowing that his acceptance was hollow. Not only did this foreigner not subscribe to the pacifistic philosophy, he held it in utter contempt. Though he did not actually express his disdain in as many words, Jurgen made it obvious every time his cruel mouth served up that sardonic grin.

Lately, she had come to regret her rather impulsive decision to share her esoteric knowledge with the foreigner. As his abilities grew (and they did by rather astounding leaps and bounds) his deference to her wisdom began to diminish in direct proportion. To her dismay, Sambata realized that she knew nothing of this stranger, including his motives for coveting her power. Now that he had gained all the knowledge that he evidently required, the German grew restive and Sambata guessed that it would not be much longer before he declared his intention to leave.

Therein lay her dilemna. With the realization that she may have been hasty in imparting her knowledge came the obligation to make sure that is was not misused. Killing was anathema to her nature, but Jurgen Gerchnau could prove evil and she would share duplicity in whatever evil acts he might unleash. Her aversion to violence might have to be subjugated by a moral obligation to protect the innocent. Sambata shuddered, appalled by the prospect of murder. Either way, her Karma would be severely tarnished. Had it been arrogance that had led her to demonstrate her knowledge with no real regard for the consequences?

"That is well, Jurgen," she concluded in an uncharacteristically wistful voice. "Perhaps deep meditation will help illuminate the path that I recommend you tread. These are intrinsic steps in the climb to spiritual apotheosis."

As always, Jurgen acceded to her command without question, but his eyes remained veiled and inscrutable. She extended a subtle probe to glean his thoughts but was astounded to find it gently, but firmly rebuffed.

Gerchnau regarded the Indian beauty with the ghost of a wry smile and the assumed the meditation position on his straw mat next to the door. He then allowed his lids to closed, retreating deep into himself.

The man posed a bewildering conundrum for Sambata. His tenacity had allowed him to reach levels of psychic and telekinetic abilities which she had not initially believed him capable of achieving. Customarily, a man bred of a culture so rooted in the tangible world failed to make serious inroads into the metaphysical shadow world simply because of the restrictions that his system of beliefs imposed upon his mind. Surprisingly, Jurgen had not been encumbered by a rigid prejudice about the world and its limits. She correctly ascribed this to a profound experience that had affected his life, though Jurgen claimed that his interest in the metaphysical sprung from his refusal to accept finite boundaries in the reach of the human mind.

The answer rang false as did many facets of the man who had first presented himself at her door. His motives for seeking power, whatever they might be, had nothing whatsoever to do with enlightenment.

Should she simply confront him, and upon determining why he craved these abilities, kill him? On that matter, Sambata was ambivalent. The taking of life had grave ramifications for the taker. Only a fool took murder lightly irrespective of how justified that killing might be. Could she kill Jurgen? In terms of possessing the means, most definitely. Gerchnau had acquired rather amazing powers, but they were child's rudiments when compared to the puissance at Sambata's disposal. She could cause his heart to falter and cease beating in the blink of an eye. The actual act of killing was simple, but could she resolve herself to committing murder?

There was another disturbing aspect to all of this; one that caused a small seed of shame to germinate in her heart. Despite her rigid control over her physical body and the chain of its needs, she had come to depend upon the ruggedly handsome German. After an initial period of torture, he had come to accept his role in tantric worship by submitting to it completely. He had dedicated himself to her pleasure with a single-minded zeal that sent delirious shivers of pleasure coursing through her nubile body even as she reflected upon them. Perhaps this had been his intention all along? Could he possibly be so cunning...so slyly insidious?

Sambata was not sure, but either by design or chance, she had become shackled by a physical craving as strong as any addiction. That she would be susceptible to this type of distraction both shocked and shamed her in equal measure. Drawing a tremulous breath, she closed her eyes and allowed her chin to settle to her chest.

Unbidden, an image leapt into her thoughts...say laid upon her bed, her skin glistening like brown satin as she inclined her beautiful face to one side and closed her eyes. Her long leg was swept in a languorous sprawl over the German's left shoulder. While he clamped her full hips in powerful hands, he would bend forward and delicately explore the folds of her nether lips, applying a subtle pressure that would push her upwards in a dizzying spiral. As his intimate knowledge of her body grew, he would prolong these intoxicating ascents until Sambata's entire body quivered with pleasure.

In retrospect, she now realized that there had been a subtle reversal of roles during these sessions. It had been her intention to test him and his restraint in the ways of the tantra, but he had somehow become the mentor and she had become the pupil.

He had beguiled her in that moment, and made her feel like a goddess on a pedestal with a favored slave paying homage to her womanhood. As he worked his oral magic, she languidly caressed the length of his rigid, restrained penis with her big toe, deriving a dark delight from the tortured moan her ministrations evoked. Somehow, he had managed to restrain himself, though the glazed expression in his eyes hinted at just how much the effort had cost the massive German.

How many times had they played out this scenario? Sambata was dismayed to discover that it had become a near nightly ritual. While she had grown addicted to his intimate attention, he had grown stronger through her denial.

Sambata shivered and her gaze slid toward the German, watching as his chest slowly rose and fell. Was it possible that this massive, seemingly artless foreigner was even capable of such masterful deception? She could no longer say with any degree of certainty that he was not.

Before she could reach any conclusions on how to deal with Gerchnau, it would first be necessary to address the matter of her own spiritual dissolution. The truth of her fallibility fell upon Sambata like twin hammers of shame and humiliation. Feeling hollow and diminished, she pushed herself to her feet and pulled her long white robe over her head, shaking out her silky hair. Naked, she crossed the room and sat cross-legged upon her pallet. Her eyes focused upon a small collection of porcelain figurines...tiny representations of the major deities of India's polytheistic system.

She began to chant in a soft, ululating voice and in mere seconds, Sambata found herself gazing down upon the physical body that had become the source of her abasement. To shatter this chain of physical enslavement, she would have to ascend to a state of pure consciousness, something that could only be obtained by shrugged off the constraints of the flesh. Once she had purged herself of this debilitating addiction, Sambata could consider the matter of Jurgen Gerchnau from a more objective perspective.

Turning her spirit towards the heavens, Sambata sped away from the tangible world.

Jurgen waited for several moments and then carefully open one eye. The rigid posture and the shallow, slow breathing informed the German that Sambata's temple was essentially unoccupied. Gracefully, he rose to his feet and hurried out into the yard. Near the rear of her vegetable garden, Sambata had Gerchnau construct a low wall of piled stones that he had scavenged out of the damp soil of the surrounding jungle. Jurgen crossed to the wall and began to pull stones from the most northerly section of the structure. He worked with a controlled sense of urgency. When out of body, Sambata was often gone for long periods of time during which her bodily functions were reduced to a bare minimum.

He pulled away the final flat, circular stone and hesitated before pulling the object of his search into the light. The two crude wooden grips were slick with black earth, but the thin strand of wire stretched between the grips in a lethal grin. Jurgen snapped the garrote experimentally, satisfied that the improvised weapon would fulfill its purpose admirably.

He had already decided that today would be the day when he would end his self-imposed exile in the humid hell. He could suffer no more of the sadistic bitch's vapid diatribes on serenity and spiritual righteousness. For all of her claims of prescience, she had underestimated Jurgen and that would prove fatal. He had excelled, but she had no idea of just how rapidly he had progressed. Though he had succeeded in concealing it, the German had developed the ability to hide his true thoughts and motivations behind a wall of emptiness. Sambata could no more read his thoughts than she could discern the intent of an insensate chunk of granite. He had repressed his true nature behind a façade of fawning servitude.

Eventually, she had accepted his charade, failing to perceive the shark that lurked beneath the wool of the lamb. Jurgen grinned at this analogy, suspecting that it was one Sambata might well have been able to appreciate.

As he approached the doorway, Jurgen gripped the wooden handles with the deadly length of wire tightened between index and middle finger of each fist. Stepping wide, he squinted against the shadows that had pooled about the Indian beauty's now vacant body. Jurgen was surprised to find that a light sheen of cold perspiration had broken out over his entire body. He found himself approaching the task of disposing of his former mentor with no small degree of trepidation. It would have been a fatal miscalculation to attempt this murder without the advantage of her absence. Jurgen was pragmatic enough to know that he would never be able to vanquish this woman in a direct confrontation. His magic had been acquired by persistence and sheer force of will, while hers had been a natural gift.

The extent of her power was truly staggering and he understood that guile was his best ally in attempting to destroy her. His actions might be misconstrued as craven by some, but Gerchnau, a proficient soldier and killer, knew that when confronted by a far superior foe, honor was an express ticket to a graveyard.

Gliding across the room, he stood behind Sambata, briefly admiring the heavy swell of her magnificent breasts and the linear perfection of her toned back. Killing her was really a shame and a long dormant part of his soul stirred enough to color his actions with an uncharacteristic measure of regret. He genuinely wished that he could conceive of some way of allowing her to live, but he knew that her puritanical nature would never allow her to simply let him go. She would seek him out, for they were truly kindred spirits, and once she became cognizant of his activities, Sambata would intervene.

That he would not allow...sentimentality had never been an obstacle to his desires and it wouldn't be this time.

In a swift, fluid motion, he looped the garrote around her swan neck and pulled until the muscles in his upper body stood out in sharp relief. The thin wire bit cruelly into the exposed throat and suddenly a thin line of crimson appeared on the flawless sepia skin of her throat.

Jurgen jerked Sambata's neck back against her knee, leaning back to apply greater leverage and now the wire vanished deep into the bloody maw of the open wound. Sambata's mouth open by reflex and now a bloody rope of saliva trickled onto her right breast. With one final titanic effort, the massive German severed the Indian's carotid artery. A fan of blood, startling in its volume, spewed out over the floor boards, quickly turning them a dull maroon color.

With a satisfied grin, Jurgen pushed the lifeless body of his former teacher and tormentor onto its face in the bloody pool. Gerchnau threw the garrote onto Sambata's back with one final gesture of disdain. "Simple enough, but you were only human after all, bitch. It's time to move on to bigger game."

Jurgen turned his back on his handiwork and crossed the small room, thrusting his blood-spattered hands into a clay pot of clean water. Watching Sambata's blood turn the water a dull shade of vermillion, Gerchnau realized that it had been more than five years since he had last taken a life. The visceral thrill that normally came with the moment of lethal intimacy was curiously absent this time and it was a moment before Gerchnau understood just what that missing element was...intimacy with Sambata. Jurgen's murder of his mentor had been a brutal version of a termination of life support, leaving the German feeling oddly unfulfilled.

With Elizabeth Simpson, Gerchnau vowed, he would not be cheated out of that moment of preternatual intimacy. He would peer into her eyes as he drove her own ritualistic dagger into whatever it was that passed for her heart. When he gazed into those alien eyes at the moment of discorporation, what mysteries...what wonders would he glimpse? That anticipation of a vast and profound insight filled the German with an eagerness that made him shudder.

"Ah, you are a clever one, Jurgen."

The voice was filled with a derisive mirth. Gerchnau stiffened, his blood turning to ice water. Slowly, he pivoted in place, preparing himself for a grim battle which he feared he was not equipped to win.

Sambata was sitting up, her torso and thighs slick with glistening gore. Her eyes locked on Jurgen's, beaming like dark suns. It took only a glance to realize that this was not Sambata that he was seeing. Exhaling sharply, he sighed in relief and quipped, "I see that you've not lost your talent for making dramatic entrances."

The thing bowed and offered the German a lewd wink. "A nice touch, Gerchnau...instead of killing her outright, you've relegated her soul to purgatory. My master appreciates such imagination."

Jurgen fielded the compliment with an indifferent shrug, not bothering to point out that his approach was more pragmatic than artful. "I'm ready to go after Simpson."

The thing's grin faded. "That is well...for a time, we feared that this tantric vixen had actually domesticated you."

Jurgen scoffed at the notion. "Obviously not. There are times when trust must be earned and doing so is always time consuming."

"As you say." The thing then stood up and crossed over to the pot that held the purified water. Holding it aloft as though it weighed not more than a bundle of dried sticks, it slowly poured the entire contents over Sambata's exquisite body. When the jug was empty, most of the blood had been washed onto the floor boards.

Cleansed of the blood, the massive throat wound was somehow even more repulsive and Jurgen averted his eyes. "Come now, Gerchnau, don't say that you've grown squeamish with age. Still, if your own handiwork offends you..."

With a theatrical flourish, the thing laid its right palm over the gaping wound. Blue effulgence filtered between the long, elegant fingers and when those fingers were removed, the only trace of the calamitous wound was an angry red line no thicker than the width of a medium gauge wire. "We intend to put this body to good use...a slight shift in the local climate, shall we say."

Sambata threw back her head and a rich, throaty laugher rolled over her tongue. Jurgen remained silent and stationary until the things fit of laugher subsided. Finally, the depthless eyes settled upon the German, all traces of levity draining from its voice. "Are you ready to perform our sanction?"

Jurgen Gerchnau nodded immediately, thrusting aside his personal reservations. The thing offered him Sambata's most radiant smile. "Very well...we have already begun to pave the way for your strike."

The thing briefly outlined some of the deceptions and distractions that had been arranged. Jurgen smiled, admiring the devious nature of his new employer. Still, he could not help but pose the obvious question. "Yet, you've had no success in locating Simpson? Why do you think I'll be any luckier?"

"The abomination has an unbreakable bond with her son. Some disciples of our church have covertly watched the man's home. Less than two weeks ago, a woman resembling the abomination appeared on the door step. She remained there for the better part of a week, then departed hurriedly...heading west...why or to where, we have no way of knowing. As we can only track her through direct physical surveillance, the followers will continue to discreetly tail her. At a prescribed moment, they will attack Simpson as another element in our rather intricate diversion."

"Did you not say that Simpson could only die on the blade of her own ceremonial dagger?" Jurgen demanded, confused and immediately suspicious.

"Indeed," the thing replied with a hint of irony.

"Then they'll be slaughter...if this woman so chooses."

"Very astute, Jurgen," Sambata commended with a touch of condescension that rankled Gerchnau. "You're enough of a soldier to know that some assets are expendable."

"And what about me, Demon? Am I expendable?" Gerchnau inquired coldly. The toothy grin relented to a hard glare. "We are all expendable, Jurgen, if the nature of the conflict demands our sacrifice."

The German nodded, understanding precisely the point the intermediary was attempting to make. "Where do I begin?"

"Logan airport via Calcutta. Papers and a generous sum of cash have been arranged. The son's name is Nathaniel. He lives with his wife...a Gypsy whore named Contayza Prowzi."

Jurgen barely managed to suppress his shocked reaction to the name and the host of dark recollections that it evoked. Her shocking destruction of Yuro Petru and his band of troopers would be forever imprinted on the fabric of his memory.

"The son lives in the city of Boston and the mother cherishes the boy. If we cannot locate the abomination, then we can expect she will come to save the son from any perceived threat. It is possible that neither eventuality may come to pass and then it will be necessary to actually track Simpson, but this is a logical place to start.

Jurgen's eyes narrowed. "And if I kill her, the demon's power will be mine?"

"Rid us of this embarrassing nuisance and you will find my master to be most generous in his gratitude."

"I've always wanted to visit America," Jurgen intoned darkly, his eyes straying to Sambata's splendid breasts. "Before I begin, perhaps there is one liberty that I may be allowed.

Discerning Jurgen's intent, Sambata dropped nimbly to her knees, running the tip of her tongue over her full lips. The intense dark eyes regarded him with keen anticipation. Gerchnau shred his trousers with a brusque tug. The very thought of this aloof Indian priestess in such an abject position enflamed the German. His penis rose to almost painful rigidity even as he crossed the small room. It swung against his abdomen like a metronome.

With leonine grace, Sambata crawled to meet him, her eyes fixed upon his engorged manhood. She cast the German one final knowing glance and then engulfed his penis with her warm, wet mouth. Jurgen's entire body shuddered wildly and her laid back his head and groaned as all thoughts of demons and limitless power were swept away by a tide of mindless pleasure.

2

The overhead glare cast a harsh white glare on the pad of yellow legal paper, cutting a swath through the pervasive darkness of the room. This particular contrast in ambiance was one that Kramer Halston favored, just as he preferred the quite solitude of his high-security, lavish condominium to the hectic chaos of his studio office. Kramer Halston had once been Billy Doyle, a nondescript Mick from Boyle Heights, Los Angeles. In retrospect, Kramer could hardly recall what his life as a conman Irish rogue had been like. It was almost as though Billy Doyle was a separate individual that Halston had known or perhaps read about. This sense of separation accompanied any memories of his passage to manhood in the rough, tired section of Los Angeles.

Glancing at his reflection in the glass blotter, Kramer could scarcely credit that this glib, virile operator could ever have been anything other than the polished, conservative satirist he now fancied himself to be.

Halston smiled, briefly scanning the compilation of notes that he had paraphrased from the background material on next Monday's show. Another lunatic hoping to propagate another inane notion, unwittingly stepping into a lion's den, would not be consumed by lions, but rather offered up to the public for ridicule and merciless humiliation. Kramer marveled over how gullible many people could be...or needed to be. They would repeatedly and blithely stray into the same trap and climb out still having no notion of how they managed to fall in. Though mystifying, the behavior was one that could be capitalized upon by a person with the right subtle touch.

' _Exploitation_!' he thought. ' _Ah, now there was a much maligned word_.' Halston subscribed to the notion that it was not possible to exploit someone who did not possess a deeply-rooted need to be exploited. The proliferation of the televangelists of the last quarter century stood as a testimony of the extent to which people could be conned. Despite how many times these posturing hypocrites destroyed themselves through ridiculous excess their sheep-like followers were always willing to forgive, to rationalize and to absolve any transgression. To Kramer's way of thinking these people deserved to be taken to the cleaners. Blatant stupidity was a repeat offence for which Kramer could find no sympathy.

With a heavy pencil, Halston wrote a series of notes in the margin, acerbic rejoinders that were bound to evoke sardonic chuckles from the audience. Tomorrow's new age thinker was the perfect foil for Kramer's brand of rapier sarcasm. Not all of his subjects were quite so cooperative. Unbidden, a mental image of Doctor Zavora Asari materialized in his mind, her strong, handsome face undaunted and defiant.

She had provided a dignified and formidable opposition that Kramer had not anticipated. Then again how was he to guess that someone who espoused the spiritual benefits of new age paganism and witchcraft would prove to be so perfectly rational and intelligent.

Even that episode, which had the potential to have been an embarrassing flop, had been saved by divine intervention of sorts. It was incredible how easily the course of events could be manipulated. One phone call and a subtle suggestion that the moral and theological foundation of Christian America was about to be undermined and presto...instant controversy.

He, along with every network executive, had condemned the heinous act of lamentable violence and wasn't it all symptomatic of the fundamental problems plaguing American society? Along with this, he had solemnly vowed to redouble security efforts to insure the safety of the guests. Meanwhile, the attack on Dr. Asari had been replayed endlessly on every news network in America, pushing his show all the closer to national syndication. Wasn't it amazing how things worked out given the right impetus? Halston laughed aloud and took a deep draught of scotch.

The next coupe would come the following Thursday when Kramer would interview Gregor Ingram. How fortuitous it had been that Ingram had sited the New Order of the Silver Goddess as America's most insidious enemy on the very day that Asari had been assaulted on his show.

Kramer had reviewed the tape of Ingram's diatribe, literally drooling with anticipation of having a crack at Ingram on the air. Asari, while her views and beliefs were rather eccentric, was an otherwise stable woman. On the other hand, Gregor Ingram was as crazy as a loon. Some instinct for preservation caution Halston that Ingram might just be more than a little dangerous.

Kramer took another swallow of scotch and grinned. Handling a potential lunatic was akin to milking a scorpion and religious lunatics were probably the most volatile and unpredictable of all. Between pagan witches and unaffiliated Protestants, Kramer would have preferred that the world be populated by the former.

His reverie was disturbed by a shattering of glass that had come from the kitchen. His head jerked around and he nearly fumbled his scotch glass as a quizzical expression twisted his lips into a frown. Suddenly, a sly, furtive sound licked the edges of the pervasive silence. Reluctantly, Halston pushed back his chair and climbed warily to his feet, carefully threading his way out of the study.

There was no one in the kitchen...he was certain of that. Something had merely fallen from the counter or cupboard shelf as things occasionally did for no discernable reason. Logically, he knew that this was true, but still he was afraid...terrified on a visceral level that repudiated logic.

Creeping into the hall, he briefly entertained the notion of retreating into his study and calling building security, but fear of looking foolish outweighed prudence.

Another noise followed...this one less subtle as though it had been intended to be heard. Kramer bristled at the thought that an intruder had violated his private sanctuary. This was his castle and the notion that someone would terrify him in his own castle angered him enough to propel him forward.

A high, shrill laugher peeled out of the darkness and a green, luminescent fog billowed out from beneath the door that led into the kitchen. Halston came to an abrupt halt, his heart seemingly rising into his throat. Suddenly, he stumbled backwards, his outrage fleeing with the last of his courage.

In the entrance to his condominium, as in all of the buildings units, a direct intercom ran down to the security station near the main entrance. Depressing the transmit button, he was greeted by a teeth-chattering screech that he recognized to be the screech of an owl. Still hopeful of rescue, he cried, "Apartment 671...someone's broken in..."

"Forget it, fucker. There's no helping you now!" a strident female voice declared with malicious delight. Kramer cursed and scrambled away from the intercom as if it was a nest of vipers. He considered it in consternation for several moments and then glancing over his shoulder, discovered that the heavy green fog had crept along the hallway.

Halston cried out and lunged for the door handle, tugging frantically and fumbling with the series of latches he'd installed. It flashed in his mind that the elaborate security system now had the negative effect of making him a prisoner. Suddenly, a tentacle appendage flashed out of the green fog and clamped down on his wrist like a manacle. Kramer attempted to pull his arm free, but his tormentor was impossibly strong and it jerked him backward with a liquid flexing of muscle.

Now Halston began to scream and pound fruitlessly on the ropy tendril of muscle that was covered with thick mucus and resembled a festering sore. Gradually Kramer was dragged into the swirling fog, choking on the noxious fumes. His breath came in ragged gasps as the thing dragged him toward the kitchen, kicking and thrashing.

' _Someone has to be hearing this_?' a part of his mind wondered, but all logical thought vanished when several more appendages reached out and ensnared his thrashing limbs. Another flat pad of repulsive flesh clamped over his mouth and in the next instant he was hoisted into the air.

Red dots, like baleful eyes, opened directly in front of his bulging face. A fraction of a second later, Kramer Halston, the American champion of right wind sarcasm and disdain was slammed unceremoniously onto the Saltillo-tiled kitchen counter.

Realizing that he was helpless, Kramer was reduced to whimpering tears. Someone spoke to him them...a decidedly feminine voice fraught with immutable rage. "You have denigrated my children...subjected them to public humiliation in the name of personal gain."

It was at that moment that Kramer Halston realized that he was about to die.

Something ripped at the front of his trousers, clutching his flaccid penis in repulsive tendrils of flesh. Through the fog of his terror and the racket of his wailing, Kramer was distantly aware of the clatter of cutlery and grasping the monstrosity's intent, redoubled his efforts to break free.

"This is a fitting form of retribution," the unseen assailant remarked. The fog dissipated enough to allow Halston to observe what was about to befall him. Now it was a hand that held his cruelly-stretched penis...the fingers long and aristocratic. A second hand flashed out of the green fog, this one brandishing a serrated carving knife. Halston marveled that the pain of his unmanning was not particularly intense, though the spewing rush of blood would have been alarming had he not been certain that he was about to die.

A second passage of the bloody blade ended both his pain and his expectant terror in a merciful passage of seconds. The tentacles withdrew in a slithering rush and the lifeless body that had once been Kramer Halston, television personality ascendant, slumped bonelessly from the counter top and tumbled to the gore-spattered tiles.

A moment later, the human wreckage was being dragged through the condominium, leaving a crimson smear in its wake. Along the north wall of the condominium, a vast bank of windows overlooked a fully enclosed central courtyard. Halston's murderer, which was really nothing more than a shapeless entity, paused briefly and drove a small object into the now smooth flesh of the victim's forehead. Then it effortlessly lifted the bloody sack of cooling flesh and tossed it through the half inch thick glass.

The courtyard was composed of a series of stone paths that wound their way through stands of sculpted trees and an assortment of bushes. Amidst this artificial tribute to nature was interspersed a number of benches where the condominium owners could go to read or simply while away the hours, presumably safe from the dangers of the outside world.

As the clock ticked its final approach to the witching hour, the garden was deserted save for a trio of habitual insomniacs. On this night, their inability to sleep earned them the opportunity to witness the dubious spectacle of Kramer Halston's body plummeting to the paving stones where it burst like a ripe cantaloupe.

3

The condominiums where the unfortunate Kramer Halston resided were indeed the most security conscious in the city of Boston. In an age where the term ' _home invasion_ ' had become one of the most frightening in the American parlance, the building's security system was sophisticated enough to set the most paranoid of owners at ease.

The system designers believed that their product protected the building from any type of furtive entry. When Halston was heaved through the plate glass window, his passage disrupted the laser sensors and this automatically activated both the alarm and the motion sensitive camera system in the central security office.

It was the video of Kramer's final fall that a grim-faced Michael Broderick and Ross Carver were presently viewing. The camera tracked the body's plunge into the shadows of the courtyard and then swiveled back to settle on the broken window, beyond which lay the impenetrable darkness of Halston's condominium.

"Replay it again...this time in slow motion," Broderick instructed, his eyes narrowing in search of the slightest detail that might reveal the identity of Halston's killer. After viewing the recording for the tenth time, the Boston city police detective conceded that he could find none. "Alright, enough."

He exchanged a quick glance with Carver and then focused his attention on the security officer. "This entire building is protected by a motion sensor system?"

"Absolutely and that includes every corridor and every stairwell."

"So if someone would have visited Halston's apartment today, the system would have detected it and made a recording, correct?"

"Exactly."

Broderick frowned, an austere expression on a face that was normally stern. "Is it possible that the camera system in the corridor leading to Halston's apartment could have malfunctioned?"

The security officer shook his head defensively. "Not really. Each camera is constantly monitored by the central computer. An electronic malfunction or signal loss activates the alarm. Even if that failed, the camera is activated any time a door along the corridor is opened. Each of these also has an independent failure detection system. The only way someone could slip through is if the entire system failed completely. That's never happened once in the fifteen years since the system was installed."

"Well something sure as hell got to Halston tonight," Broderick countered gruffly. "You can go."

The security officer nodded in relief and beat a hasty exit, glad to be away from the two dour police detectives. When the door to Halston's condo closed, Broderick declared, "If there's one thing I hate it's a fucking locked door mystery. That's exactly what we've got here."

Carver nodded dismally. "Despite the fact that the security system is nearly unbreechable, I can't see any way we can label this a suicide."

"Right. Who kills them self by cutting their dick off, slitting their own throat and running through a plate glass window?"

"Not to mention impaling a pin in their forehead first." Carver added.

"Besides, assholes like Halston never kill themselves because they derive too much pleasure from fucking every one else over. Actually, where is that pin?"

Carver reached into his pocket and produced an evidence bag that held the small silver pin. He handed the bag to Broderick, who examined the pin closely, turning it over and over in his large hands.

"No prints?"

"None, but we did discover that it's made of white gold...not silver. That would make it considerably more expensive...and quite possibly custom made."

Broderick and Carver exchanged significant glances, realizing that this could well be a key piece of evidence in their investigation. The pin was styled in the international symbol of the woman, bisected by a silver crescent moon. Broderick suspected that the pin had been deliberately left as a goad...a single ambiguous clue in what was otherwise a rather deft act of murder.

"So what do you think we have here?" he heard himself ask distantly, unable to draw his gaze away from the pin.

"Obviously murder," Carver began in his flat, inflectionless voice that reminded Broderick of an answering machine. "Due to the nature of the murder, I would tend to think that the killer...or killers were female. Unmanning Halston is probably very symbolic in the killers mind. The symbol of the woman could go a long way towards corroborating that impression. That may not narrow things down a great deal because Halston was not the most popular man alive."

"He was a grade A asshole is what he was," Broderick observed with a touch of rancor. "He made a fortune baiting border line loonies. I guess he didn't realize just how volatile some of these psychos could be."

"That still leaves the matter of how the perpetrator circumvented all of this security. Broderick nodded sourly. "True, but at least we have a starting point with this pin. Let's head down to the television station and look at some of the tape of his recent shows. Just maybe the owner of this little charm might crop up as one of Halston's aggrieved guests."

Chapter Nine

1

While the Boston police grappled with the complexities of the Halston murder, in Maine, the small, mostly black congregation of the Revisionist church prepared for another Sunday night sermon. As September descended upon the northeastern United States, it brought with it unseasonably hot and humid temperatures, plunging the city of Lewiston into an enervating sauna when normally it would have been experiencing the first tentative approach of fall.

The local chapter of the Revisionist order was run by a placid black pastor named Nate Guthrie. Of late, the good pastor had been grappling with a moral quandary. The last four weeks had signified a distressing change in the direction of the order. Where once founder Ingram's message had been centered on love and tolerance, now it focused on confrontation and Old Testament retribution. Guthrie would have been clearly distressed had it not been for the fact that the number of parishioners had doubled since Ingram had first disclosed his new hard line theology.

Guthrie shook his head and absently wiped perspiration from his brow, wondering if there might be some profound, intrinsic truth in the two developments. America had seemingly developed an appetite for dispensing harsh biblical justice. In the days when fear and brutal violence were running rampant, perhaps passivity and universal love were concepts that had lost meaning and popularity. Yet, Nate could not help but wonder if he could abandon his beliefs to appease a need in those he was supposed to guide.

He sighed and made his way into the basement. The church was a tiny wood siding, cracker box that held heat like a sauna, but hadn't Nate's little parish been blessed of late? Just four days ago, Guthrie received a letter from the founder himself, informing the pastor that his tiny church was going to receive a new central air system, part of which would include a new air conditioning unit. The founder had informed Guthrie that the ministry intended to spend a great portion of its budget ' _fortifying God's temple for the holy war to come_.' Guthrie was not certain that he cared for the concept of holy war, but the new high efficiency air system suited him just fine.

Nath switched on the lights in the heating exchange room and stood before the control panel of his new toy. There had been many occasions when Nate had questioned (if only to himself) the integrity of the man who had founded and still ran the revisionist order. Gazing at the stainless steel console, Nate was forced to recant his skeptical thoughts. If the elder was willing to invest money in his smaller churches, then Guthrie was certainly unjustified in his doubts.

Nate studied the panel for a long time and depressed the appropriate buttons, smiling as the system whirled into life. Tonight's sermon would be delivered in air conditioned comfort and not the airless steam bath that had existed for the last six weeks. Maybe, lord willing, Nate might be able to convince the elders that new cushioning on the pews might make the sermons more tenable. Guthrie had never subscribed to the notion that church attendance should involve a form of torture as though in punishment for the transgressions of the week.

Nate gave the console one final appreciative glance and then went into the rectory to prepare for his sermon. As he donned his cassock, he considered how things were looking up for his church for the first time in years.

2

The Ford Terrapin was a dark nondescript gray that blended into the rather drab surrounding outside the Lewiston parish of the Revisionist church. The car's two occupants watched in an impassive silence as the stragglers shuffled dutifully into the small church.

When the last of the latecomers had made it into the hall, Nate appeared on the stoop and glanced up and down the street, his serene black face beaming in the slanting sunlight.

After the doors had closed, one of the car's occupants opened his door and checking to insure that the street was deserted, crossed over to the entrance to the Revisionist church. Mounting the steps, the man withdrew several small shiny objects and affixed them to the large oak doors, driving them into the beveled cracks.

Then he retreated to the Terrapin and the driver allowed the car to roll some fifty feet along the curb. The pair waited for approximately twenty minutes to allow the congregation to settle in.

"How many did ya' figure?" the passenger inquired of the driver.

"About forty," the other man allowed tacitly, his eyes fixed on the double doors.

"Ah well, sacrifices have to be made," the other man quipped sardonically. "Christian soldiers and all that shit."

"Let's get this thing done," the driver advised softly, "It's a long flight back to Memphis and Ingram will want a personal report pronto."

The passenger nodded tightly, his demeanor now becoming serious. He opened the glove compartment and withdrew a small black box with several toggle switches on the face. He placed the device on his lap, and drawing a deep, quavering breath, pushed the first of the switches.

In the Church basement, a small green light flickered to life on the console that Pastor Guthrie had so recently admired.

In the Church, the choir made the ironic segue from 'Rock of Ages' to 'Nearer my God to thee.'

Ingram's assassin flipped the last two toggle switches. On the console, the final red light blazed into life and Guthrie's blessing became a fiery engine of death.

As the two men in the Terrapin watched, the small church literally leapt from its foundations.

"Holy fuck!" the driver remarked profoundly before uttering a peel of jittery laughter. In the next instant, every window in the building exploded outward in a brilliant burst of light and glass shrapnel. Black smoke and orange flames flickered through the jagged wooden openings. The wooden doors were roughly ripped from their hinges and sent tumbling end over end like shingles.

The pair watched in silence as the flames found purchase of the wooden siding and soon the entire structure was engulfed in flames.

"Extreme termination," the passenger murmured, thoroughly impressed by the totality of the destruction that their device had wrought. Seconds later, the discordant cry of sirens filled the humid air and the driver calmly pulled away from the curb and drove away from the flaming ruins.

3

As the Revisionist church of Lewiston, Maine fell victim to the vile machinations of its insane leader, Nathaniel Simpson sat behind the wheel of his Buick, lost in a world of vague anxieties and dark contemplation. The car was parked in the driveway of his own home, but he gazed up at the house as thought it had become alien and possibly hostile terrain. It had been more than twenty minutes since he had arrived home, but he still could not compel his body to the task of pushing open the door and trudging up the driveway.

If the house seemed strange, the woman who shared it with him was totally foreign, a changeling or doppelganger the riddle of whose purpose he could not begin to decipher. Nath's dilemma revolved around his inability to decide if his wife's shift in behavior was the product of his own anxiety or an actual drastic change in personality.

Contayza's reaction to the unexpected appearance of his mother had been natural enough, but her persisting anxiety and animosity towards his mother was not so easily understood. In Nath's mind, Elizabeth's rapid departure on discovering that her presence posed a direct threat to her family demonstrated the strength and sincerity of her love for her family. Contayza was not so easily convinced, though her relief at Elizabeth's departure was painfully apparent.

None of this was so extraordinary under the circumstances and it was natural to experience a sense of extreme discomfort in the presence of a creature such as Elizabeth, whose nature really defied description. What concerned Nath was the extent of his wife's enmity toward his mother...a smoldering belligerence that was, in his opinion, totally unjustified. Reluctantly, his mind circled back to their perplexing conversation of the previous night.

She had returned from her appointment with Doctor Raltman, sailing into the house like storm clouds from a clear blue sky. She had radiated anxiety in palpable waves and for one horrifying moment, Nath had feared that something was seriously wrong with the baby.

"The Doctor said that the fetus is developing perfectly to schedule," she had informed him brusquely and though his relief had been tremendous, the darkness of her mood persisted. Nath had wanted to question its source, but understood that Contayza was not a woman to be prompted. If she chose to share her emotions at all, it would be at a time of her choosing.

During supper, it had poured forth in a torrent, completely flabbergasting Simpson. "Nath, I think we should move."

He had paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and regarded his beautiful wife warily. Her large dark eyes were inscrutable. "Move?" he echoed dumbly, "Why would we want to do that? This house is just about perfect. You love this house, invested so much time into..."

"No," she interrupted, her gaze sliding to her plate. "I don't just mean change houses, I want us to move out of Boston...out of New England. Let's start a new life somewhere else...just you, me and the baby."

Nath felt a sudden compulsion to bray nervous laughter, but fortunately managed to suppress the urge. This situation was totally devoid of humor and Nath could feel ice slivers forming in his veins. This had nothing to do with relocation and everything to do with the looming specter of his absent mother. For a protracted, painful moment, Nath fumbled, uncertain how to open up a sensible dialogue on the issue. Finally, all he could muster was, "Why?"

She flicked her gaze in his direction and there was such naked fear in those brown depths that Nathaniel nearly acceded then and there, if only to banish that terror. "This place is no longer safe. I want our...our child to be safe."

"Tayza, Boston's as safe as any city, really. That's why we agreed to live here in the first place," Nath observed gently.

"It isn't though," she contradicted, still refusing to meet his gaze. Nath hesitated, dreading where his next question might lead them, and then asked softly," This is really about Elizabeth, isn't it?"

Nath watched his wife closely as Tayza raised her head, her eyes meeting his with a blazing challenge. "Yes, it's about Elizabeth...it's about your mother and her enemies."

"That's why she left," Nath pointed out, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. "She understood that her presence was an immediate danger, so she left to protect us."

"Is that really why she left?" Tayza countered her voice fraught with sardonic anger. On the few occasions that Nath had managed to raise his wife's ire, he had found himself confronted by an insurmountable wall of intransigence. Now he recognized many of the warning signs in her tense posture and flinty expression.

"Perhaps, you'd better explain that," he murmured distantly.

"I suppose you haven't heard what happened to Kramer Halston?" she demanded, her words whipping the air life a lash. The malicious gleam in her eyes was not one that he could ever recall seeing prior to this particularly ugly moment. He raised his hands to indicate his ignorance.

"Halston is dead."

Nath gaped in incredulity, but in a dark, forbidding corner of his mind something snapped into place like the pieces of a vast and terrifying puzzle. "When? How, for that matter?"

"They found him with his throat torn out in the courtyard of his condominium. A silver pin of some sort had been driven into his forehead," Tayza reported with a strange malicious delight that Nath could not comprehend. "The police claim that the security of that particular building is virtually airtight. They're totally baffled. To their way of thinking, no human being could have broken into that building and killed Halston without being detected."

"Perhaps, they're right...no human being could have." She allowed the innuendo to lie between them like a festering sore. Nath slowly set his fork down and pushed his plate aside. His appetite fled before the unwelcome images of Elizabeth, her eyes glowing an unholy orange, tearing the pompous Halston's throat out. The image sickened him and for the briefest of moments he felt a black hatred for the woman across from him. He said nothing until that hatred subsided to bewilderment, though the aftermath left him feeling weak and sick at heart. "Contayza, Elizabeth would never kill out of vengeance. What possible reason would she have to kill Halston? She said that she was heading west and I believe her."

Contayza grunted in disgust and tossed her thick mane, "Of course you believe her. Nath, you want so desperately to believe that she is still the woman that was your mother. She is not! We have no way of understanding her...the morals that guide her actions or the perspective from which she sees things. No matter what even she believes, Elizabeth is the same type of creature as Cynara and I don't want her near my family...near my baby!"

Nath held up his hands, dismayed by his wife's shrill outburst. "Tayza, why are you suddenly so afraid of Elizabeth."

Contayza said nothing, instead staring fixedly at her plate. Nath could see that her folded hands were trembling violently. Yet, when she glanced up at Simpson, her eyes shone fiercely. Her voice was glacial and utterly flat, "I don't want Elizabeth near my child and if you force me to, I'll take Zoya and go."

Nath could say nothing. Her ultimatum reduced him to speechlessness. Finally, he managed, "Contayza this is our home. Even if we left, she would find me if she wanted to. We both know that I'd never let anyone harm you or our child. That includes Elizabeth."

"Then tell her to stay away!" Tayza screamed. Then she fled the kitchen, leaving Nath to stare like the survivor of a terrorist bombing.

Between the and now, they had not exchanged a word, a state that had never existed between the pair in the five years of marriage. Drawing a deep breath, Nath opened his door and willed himself up the driveway, pausing at the door before plunging into the house, his posture tense and expectant.

The house was dark, silent and forbidding. Nath paused and listened. From somewhere in the deep recesses of the house there came a subtle whisper of sound. Simpson made his way toward the noise. Though it was preposterous, he felt himself growing more fearful with each step.

Contayza was in the family room, the very room where they had sat with Elizabeth less than two weeks before. Nathaniel came to an abrupt stop, his lower jaw dropping open as though it had become unhinged. Contayza sat in a wing back with her face turned away from her husband. Her shoulders were rigid with concentration. The energy that radiated from her body was a palpable thing that sent shivers along Nath's spine.

Before her, a heavy teak table spun some three feet off the ground, rotating like a child's top.

"Tayza?" Nath inquired his voice small and distant. Abruptly, the table stopped spinning and crashed to the hardwood floor. Contayza leapt out of her chair and spun about, regarding her husband with eyes that were disconnected and glazed. When recognition filtered through, she appeared flustered and embarrassed.

"Nath, I...I." Her voice trailed away as she averted her eyes to the overturned table. Nath closed the distance between the pair, deliberately imposing himself in front of his wife. "Why?"

She glanced up at her husband with an expression that was sullen and remote. "Why not? The talent is mine and I've subjugated it as though it's some kind of shameful secret. The fact is that these telepathic powers are an integral part of my nature."

After a moment, she added, "Just as they are a part of Zoya's nature. I want to teach her to understand them and not fear or despise them. The child will know of her heritage, Nathaniel...both yours and mine."

Nathaniel accepted this with a tacit nod, but instinct cautioned him that her motives might not be so benign. Still, he elected not to aggravate an already tense situation. "It seems that you've not lost the power."

Tayza offered her husband a wan grin. "I've not lost it, but like any other talent, it grows rusty is it's not put to use. There was a time when I would have been able to spin that table without the slightest exertion. It took twenty minutes just to move it and I've given myself a pounding headache.

Again, Nath accepted this without comment. Turning away from Tayza, he crossed the room and turned the heavy table upright, marveling that it could be manipulated by thought alone. He could feel Contayza's scrutiny upon his back like a physical touch.

"Nath, about yesterday and the things that I said about your mother...Frankly, I was angry and when I become angry, the belligerent side of my nature comes out."

"Why are you afraid?" he inquired softly.

"I don't exactly know. Lately, I've felt an unfocused, persistent fear that something terrible is about to happen. Then, when Elizabeth appeared out of the blue, my apprehension focused upon her. I don't really believe that she killed Kramer Halston."

She glanced up at Nath as though needing some sort of absolution. He knew Contayza well enough to realize how expensive any form of apology was for his wife to offer and thus he granted her wish. "I honestly believe that my mother would never intentionally harm us."

Contayza nodded a vigorous agreement. "I know that, but I was bred to fear creatures such as Elizabeth and Cynara. It's not an easy thing to set aside."

Nath came and sat next to his wife and for the first time in days, felt a return of the old empathy that had always characterized their relationship. A tiny portion of his mind cautioned against quick acceptance of Contayza's behavior as just an aberration. In his fervent desire to return to normalcy, Nath brusquely thrust his misgivings aside.

"Tayza, Cynara and Elizabeth have nothing in common other than the fact that they are both super human. Elizabeth is capable of love, compassion and other higher virtues...something that Cynara never was."

"Nath, I'm so sorry," Contayza offered, her voice soft and deferential. She held her arms out to Nath and he went willingly into her embrace.

With his face buried in her thick mass of ebony curls, Nath was oblivious to the dark shadow that had slipped over his wife's lovely face. Certain that her husband had accepted her feigned plea for forgiveness, Contayza began to grin and drew him closer.

3

"How many times are we going to cover the same damnable ground?" Zavora Asari protested, though a pleading note echoes beneath her obvious exasperation. "I don't know anything about the Revisionist Church and I've never heard of Gregor Ingram."

She averted her tired gaze to her hands which were folded primly in her lap, while Broderick and Carver exchanged glances.

"You'll go over this as many times as it takes to convince us that you're telling the truth," Broderick declared severely causing Carver to smile in amusement at the way that his partner reverted to the thick Irish brogue whenever he interrogated a suspect. Asari shook her head in wary frustration and shifted her gaze to the window.

Broderick's expression softened slightly as he studied her strong, handsome profile. He considered himself to be a credible judge of character and his instincts were telling him that Asari was being truthful. He conceded this with only mild disappointment, knowing that he was under intense pressure to produce a firm suspect in the Halston murder.

After leaving Halston's condominium, the pair of detectives had sat down with the show's bewildered producer and requested that she provide them with a list of ten of the show's most recent volatile guests...with a special emphasis on those who might have been enraged by Kramer's brand of journalistic terrorism. The pair had then spent several hours reviewing the tapes.

"This is definitely not going to be easy," Broderick remarked as he watched the deceased host humiliate one hapless guest after another.

"Halston was not a difficult man to hate," Carver observed. "For all of his smug condescension, I don't think he had any real notion of the impact he was having on these people."

Broderick grunted, knowing that the astute Carver was again correct...Halston had no real perception of just who he was toying with. Many of his guests were enthralled by their bizarre beliefs and he had little doubt that most would not take kindly to harsh public ridicule.

The ninth tape had been the replay of Halston's turbulent encounter with Zavora Asari. In the understated elegance of her attire, Broderick had spotted the tiny, almost demure silver pin and this had led them to the hospital were the good doctor was still recuperating from her thrashing.

"So maybe you can explain how your order's pin came to be implanted in Halston's forehead?" Broderick demanded, his voice fraught with implicit challenge. She glanced sharply at the detective, her lovely gray eyes keen with anger that Broderick realized was attenuated by genuine confusion.

Then her expression hardened...inure by the certainty that the detective was chasing shadows. "As to how one of our pins came to be found at the Halston residence...I have no idea."

There was a sharp rap on Asari's hospital room door and after a slight pause, a uniformed officer entered. Broderick glanced up impatiently as the officer handed him a single sheet of paper. As he scanned the text, his eyes widened in horror. Dismayed and shocked, Broderick handed the sheet to Carver.

Asari watched both men closely, alarmed by their identical reaction to whatever was recorded on that single sheet of paper. She sensed that something momentous had occurred...something that would make her situation all the more precarious.

Broderick shifted his attention to the doctor, his eyes gleaming with a new belligerence. "You had better get some idea in a hurry, lady."

"What's happened?" she demanded warily, though part of her mind dreaded the possible answer.

"Less than two hours ago, a revisionist church in Lewiston, Maine was blown to pieces. The death toll stands at thirty five and counting...the exact number can't be confirmed due to the radical dismemberment of the bodies." He hesitated to allow Asari to absorb the harsh reality of the image and then added, "Thirteen of these silver pins were tacked to the church doors."

For several moments, Zavora Asari could neither move nor speak, so profound was her reaction to the horror of the incident and the improbability of what the detective had conveyed. Her confusion grew in geometric leaps and bounds and all she could muster was, "What is the Revisionist Church?"

Broderick grunted in disgust and turned away. Seeing that his partner was perilously close to losing his composure, Carver stepped to the fore. "Doctor Asari, the matter has now become considerably more serious. The FBI has requested that you be held until they can dispatch agents to question you. They are treating the bombing as an act of deliberate terrorism."

"That's insane!" Asari exploded. "I have no idea who these people are. What possible reason would I have to order or condone such a thing?"

' _Either this woman is an especially gifted actress or she's genuinely perplexed_ ,' Carver thought, not sure about his personal feeling in the matter. "The day that you were assaulted on Halston's television show, the leader of the Revisionist Church – one Gregor Ingram – appeared on national television and branded your group a moral abomination. He went so far as to say that the Revisionist Church had a moral obligation to stamp your group out of existence. To say the least, his rhetoric was inflammatory...very close to inciting outright violence."

"I still don't understand," Asari persisted, feeling both despondent and perplexed.

Finally, Broderick recovered his composure enough to resume his interrogation. "What he is saying is that Gregor Ingram puts your group at the head of his witch hunt list. Less than a week later, one of his congregations is incinerated and your order's insignia is found on the scene."

"Doctor Asari, are you claiming that you had no prior knowledge of Mr. Ingram or his statement regarding your organization?" Carver asked calmly.

"The day that I was taken here, I was in no condition to watch television," Zavora explained patiently. "I've heard nothing since and I believe that your own men can attest to the fact that I've had no visitors." Even as she spoke the deception, Zavora understood that she could never reveal the details of her one visit from the golden witch. The creature had denied that she was an emissary of Artemis, but to think that she was capable of such a monstrous act of evil was something that Asari found inconceivable.

Again, the two detectives exchanges glances. The senior detective produced a small pin and held it forth for Asari to see. "Tell me more about these."

"There is really not a great deal to tell. They are made of silver...a metal commonly associated with the moon...and platinum. The crescent moon is a symbol of the lunar Goddess and the other is an internationally recognized symbol of the female. The serve no other purpose but to signify the wearer as a follower of Artemis. To the point...there is no esoteric meaning behind the symbol."

"And exactly who could wear these?" Broderick demanded.

"Only an initiated member of the order of the Silver Goddess."

"A witch?" Carver offered.

"That is not a term I care to use, but you are correct to say that the practitioners are Wiccans."

"Who makes these things for you?"

Zavora shook her head. "We make our own. You see, when a novice is initiated into the order, silver is heated and then forged in a mold as part of the ceremony. The fire purifies and sanctifies the pin, thus protecting the wearer."

"Right," Broderick remarked, his sarcasm evident and biting. "Do you have any idea how many of these pins exist?"

"Exactly two hundred and sixteen."

Carver arched an eyebrow in surprise. "How can you be so precise?"

"That number represents the present number of fully initiated Wiccans in the order. There are also fifty novices but they have not been granted a pin."

"I want a list of everyone who currently holds a pin," Broderick stated flatly, his surly tone making clear that he would brook no equivocation.

Asari's eyes widened in consternation and she declared resolutely, "I'm sorry, but that is something that I'm not prepared to do."

"Not prepared to do?" Broderick echoed incredulously. "Then you better be prepared to face an obstruction of justice charge...actually two of them as the F.B.I. will want the same information we do."

Asari considered this for several seconds while Broderick continued to lash her with a baleful glare. Finally, she asked softly, "May I see the pin?"

The sergeant crossed the room and dropped the clear plastic bag into her upturned palm. She held it up to the light. "May I remove it from the bag?"

"It's been thoroughly examined, so I guess it's okay," Broderick allowed.

Zavora opened the zip lock and shook the familiar pin into her palm. Then she deftly turned it over with her fingers, her incredulity and horror growing with every moment she held the pin. Sensing her dismay, Broderick pressed the issue. "It's exactly the same, isn't it...right down to the finest detail?"

A visibly shaken Asari could offer no denial.

"I want that list, Dr. Asari," Broderick persisted like a tracking dog that is locked on to a scent.

She swallowed with an audible click and ran her fingers nervously through her short hair. The bruises were now fading memories but she could still fell the pain and indignation of her attack as though it had occurred only hours before. Somehow this breech of trust felt worse as though by complying with Broderick's request, she would be willingly subjecting herself to rape.

"Sergeant Broderick, you must promise me that if I do agree to provide you with a list of members, the subsequent investigation would be conducted with all possible discretion. I'm sure you believe my order is comprised of a bunch of eccentric fools, but I assure you that this perception is grossly incorrect. Many of these women are influential and accomplished and they do not deserve to be scandalized because they do not subscribe to common religious beliefs."

Broderick regarded her closely, clearly discerning the near desperation behind her entreaty. "I promise to be as discreet as circumstances allow, but you have to realize, if one of your members turns out to be responsible for these crimes, your sisters are going to feel like birds in a very public cage."

Asari signified her understanding with a tight nod, praying fervently that this grim eventuality would not come to pass. "Sergeant Broderick, perhaps I may suggest a way to avoid needless publicity. The order owns a retreat in Vermont. It is where we go to celebrate the sabbats...the major religious ceremonies of the Wiccan calendar. If I contact the women and convene a conclave, you would be able to question every member without interruption or undo attention."

"They would agree to this?" Carver asked, clearly dubious.

"To preserve their privacy, absolutely," Zavora asserted confidently.

The two detectives exchanges uncertain glances and finally Broderick remarked, "This will take time to arrange and clear with my superiors. Still, I think this is only a formality. Start making phone calls, Dr. Asari. Impress upon your followers that this is a mandatory invitation."

With this warning delivered, the two detectives left Zavora alone. The moment they departed, her façade of composure crumbled and hot tears began to stream over her defined cheekbones. The order upon which she had built her life was crumbling like dust. To believe that one of her own had committed these atrocities was unthinkable and so this would amount to another witch hunt. Rolling unto her side, Zavora drew her knees to her chest and allowed the spasm of grief to run its course.

She wondered if it was possible for her life to get much worse. All too soon she would discover that it was.

Chapter Ten

1

Immediately following her meeting with Zavora Asari, Elizabeth Simpson began her long journey westward. With each passing mile there came the growing feeling of closure...of completing a circle that had lain open and neglected for far too long. Though perhaps naive, Elizabeth Simpson harbored the hope that David Stillman might yet be alive...that he had managed to survive the twenty-five year exile that Cynara imposed upon him. It would have astounded her to know that this was precisely how her son, Nathaniel, had felt as he searched for her just five years before.

However foolish this delusion might be, Elizabeth still found herself pleased by the thought that David might still be alive. The mere capacity for hope confirmed that her humanity was at least partially in tact.

It was in Minnesota that Elizabeth first gleaned subtle intimations of constant scrutiny. Though she found no tangible evidence of being followed...no trailing car or furtive glances at rest stops...she could not shrug off the feeling of being constantly observed as she drove through the heavy forests of the American heartland. She found her gaze straying constantly to the rearview mirror of the Jaguar. Not once did she detect any sign of being trailed, but still the impression persisted like an unreachable itch.

Out of the great sprawling forests, Simpson had pushed into the plain states of North Dakota and Nebraska. She realized that her westward run had gained its own momentum. She could sense a vast churning of endless possibilities, both benign and belligerent, swirling about her like a vortex.

When she attempted to sleep, the dreams came with alarming clarity and frequency. Surreal and complex, their mysteries defied logical interpretation. Zavora Asari, Gregor Ingram and the beautiful, enigmatic Karnalla Mansley: all pieces of an intricate puzzle that mocked Elizabeth through both sleep and consciousness. Instinct told her that she would be the lens through which all of these forces would be focused...a common point of convergence, the purpose of which remained obscured in shadow.

Through all of this a small voice constantly proposed a course of action that both appalled and terrified Elizabeth. Try to silence it as she might, the voice would not be stilled for long.

It was just north of Bismarck, North Dakota where Elizabeth learned of the death of Kramer Halston and the members of the Lewiston, Maine Revisionist church. Decelerating, she pulled her car onto the deserted gravel shoulder. Her body began to tremble like a sapling in a storm and her hand clutched the wheel with white-knuckled intensity.

A sense of exigency crashed down upon her like a tidal wave on a defenseless shore. An entire church congregation incinerated and a television personality killed in a gruesome and inexplicable manner. The news report had related that a doctor Zavora Asari had been detained for questioning and then later released.

She had advised Asari that maintaining a low profile might be her most prudent course of action...that Gregor Ingram might turn his attention on a more combative target. Now she realized that the advice had been woefully misguided. Asari and her new order of the silver goddess had been specifically targeted. Why? Elizabeth could say with a reasonable degree of confidence that she was the reason, though she simply could not distill a logical motive from these insane acts of violence. Asari heralded Elizabeth as a modern Messiah and Ingram perceived her to be an abomination, but just who had inculcated the pair with these motivations and more perplexing still...why had they done so?

Drawing a tremulous breath, Elizabeth maneuvered her Jaguar back onto the black top and pushed the sports car to the speed limit. There could be little doubt that Cynara's masters were moving against her, but why were they bothering to be so circumspect in their attack? She had always imagined that their vengeance would be a fiery and vulgar display of raw power. Instead, they had elected to attack her in a manner that was insidious, puzzling and difficult to anticipate.

Simpson frowned and shook her head, her wheaten hair flowing around her lovely face like strands of spun gold. She could no longer deny that if she was ever to find David, it would have to be quickly because it was now readily apparent that her own life could well be measured in mere days. If she could find David and secure his forgiveness, Elizabeth Simpson was fully prepared to accept whatever fate awaited her.

2

As she crossed the border into Montana, a torrential rain broke over the unrelenting flatness of the Great Plains. Oddly enough, Elizabeth found that the endless, monotonous flatness assuaged her anxiety. The impression of being followed persisted, but she now managed to compartmentalize it. She was even more grateful for the fact that the unvarying landscape even managed to hold the terrifying dreams and nagging questions at bay.

Soon she would reach the foothills and then the mountains beyond. From there, she would begin the final leg of her journey. She did not give consideration to the idea that this journey's end might coincide with the end of her life. Irrespective of the outcome, her road to David was the only path she was willing to travel and she could feel her excitement mounting like a slow building fever. She passed the miles by conjuring images of the man she once loved. She tried to imagine what a reunion with David might be like but found that she could not begin to construct a mental portrait of that particular moment. The degree to which this did not concerned her actually surprised Elizabeth but she understood that her imperative was simply finding David and she would deal with everything beyond this as it developed.

As she rounded a sharp curve, the yellow beams of the Jag captured a solitary figure standing on the sodden shoulder.

' _A hitchhiker_?' she wondered, experiencing a twinge of pity for anyone unfortunate enough to be caught in this deluge nowhere in sight of shelter.

On impulse, she pulled the Jag onto the shoulder and began to back toward the hitchhiker. Seeing that deliverance was near the figure let out an exultant whoop and began to sprint toward the car.

The door was pulled open and a face appeared out of the darkness. To Elizabeth amazement and dismay, the hitcher turned out to be a young girl, probably no older than seventeen with a cherubic face dominated by large gray eyes. Her forest green rain slicker was awash with the yellow light of the car's interior, as the girl cast a doubtful glance at the car's expensive interior.

"Never mind," Elizabeth welcomed with a disarming smile and motioned for the girl to climb inside. The girl complied with a broad grin, swinging her leather packsack in and dropping it between her feet as she settled into the soft leather with an audible sigh of relief.

Elizabeth watched the girl peripherally as she steered back onto the asphalt, wondering why her instincts were braying a keen admonition. "My name is Elizabeth Simpson."

"Cassy Jasic," the girl chirped, while pushing back her hood and shaking loose her long red curls. There was a cavalier elegance to the girl's movements that told Elizabeth that the girl was no stranger to moments such as this.

"You picked a pretty horrible night to be hitchhiking, Cassie," Elizabeth remarked amicably as she accelerated back to highway speed.

"Not really," she contradicted, casting a quick glance at the beautiful blonde who had been foolish enough to pull over. Though she was tall and confident, Cassie was certain that she would whimper and plead when the inevitable moment came. ' _Just like they all do_ ,' she thought guardedly. Cassie had long ago discerned that her appearance of angelic innocence made what was to follow all that much easier.

"On a nice day, you can stand on the side of the road until you turn to dust. I guess drivers figure that the sun's shining so a little walking can't hurt." She smiled then...a dazzling, disarming smile that surprised Elizabeth with its magnitude. "During storms, I imagine that people feel a little sorry for anyone stuck outside."

She neglected to add that the highways were virtually deserted at such times, making her job a good deal less risky.

"Makes sense," Elizabeth mused. Her initial impression had proven correct...the girl was a seasoned thumb traveler, a notion that saddened and disturbed Elizabeth. This beautiful child was someone's daughter and she was wandering the back roads or America like a wind-blown itinerant. To lose such a precious treasure...Elizabeth knew that pernicious, relentless sting of loss all too well. Understanding that the nature progression of these thoughts could only lead to Nathaniel, she cut the image off.

"So you must be going somewhere pretty important to be out on a wild night like this?" Elizabeth inquired casually. Cassie turned her face towards the passenger window, staring fixedly at the rainy darkness beyond. For a moment it seemed that Cassie had no intention of replying, but then she murmured, "Nowhere specific...just west. I though I'd go to California - L.A. eventually – but that hardly seems important anymore."

There was a distant, fey tone to the girl's voice. The sorry ring of disillusionment echoed through her every word like a forlorn wind. Elizabeth found herself wanting to reach out to the girl...to glean the cause of her despair. Then Cassie laughed and the moment dissolved. "So, how about you? You must be heading somewhere pretty important to be driving through a storm in the middle of the night?"

Elizabeth smiled. "Actually, I'm going to Washington and yes, I'm in a hurry."

The girl merely nodded and resumed her scrutiny of the bleak Montana night. Elizabeth drove, stealing brief, furtive glances at the girl. She seemed so vulnerable...so fragile. Elizabeth thought of the monsters cruising the highways of America and shuddered to think that one of them could well happen upon defenseless Cassie Jasic. The girl had obviously been on the road for a good while. One need only look at her ragged clothes and her pallid skin to know that. She had been fortunate and had probably acquired some street smarts along the way, but Elizabeth knew that these things were not without limits and so she found herself helpless to not offer a proposal of aid.

"Cassie, if you don't mind a slight detour, you're welcomed to ride with me." Elizabeth regarded the girl evenly, carefully attempting to impose her formidable will on the girl's mind. Cassie blinked in response. Elizabeth's probe manifested itself as an itching in her skull. Elizabeth immediately stopped, not wishing to alarm the girl.

Cassie turned back toward the wild night, not wanting the gullible bitch to catch a glimpse of the incongruent shark's grin that had surfaced on her face like oil on water. They were all the same and this bitch, for all her beauty, was no different from the rest. Men were the most predictable. One glimpse of her face and that mass of red curls and their eyes came alive that lecherous gleam she had come to recognize so well. The women were different (though not always) and their motivations for offering their aid were more complex...more maternal. Whatever their reasons, Cassie had long since ceased to care. Not wanting to seem too eager, she stammered, "I...I have no money."

Elizabeth uttered a genuinely warm laugh, surprised by how quickly she was growing fond of the girl. "Not to worry, I have plenty and then some. Whaddya say? Wanna keep me company?"

3

"My dad's a dentist and my mom teaches music at a high school in Cincinnati," Cassie revealed as she shoveled ice cream and apple pie into her mouth. Elizabeth sipped hot coffee and watched the young girl, marveling at her beauty. Something in her demeanor suggested that Cassandra Jasic had no clear concept of how attractive she really was. Her voracious appetite informed Liz that the girl had not been eating regularly and perhaps not at all for some time.

' _You're creating a complication that you can't really afford_ ," a tiny voice cautioned. Elizabeth understood that she was hardly in a position to become a ward for a runaway teenager, but the girl could simply not be left to fend for herself. If allowed to drift to California, Cassie's future would be predictable enough...drugs, prostitution and the other despoilers that had enticed a million Cassie's to their demise. Elizabeth suddenly felt compelled to forestall that eventuality. It was not inconceivable that Cassandra Jasic had been thrust into her path for a reason, but Elizabeth refused to entertain that unsettling notion.

"Why did you leave, Cassie?" Elizabeth heard herself ask. Around them, the truck stop was sparsely populated by a few long distance haulers, many of whom stole surreptitious glances at the beautiful blond and her pretty red haired daughter.

The girl shrugged and tilted her head to one side, an endearing habit that Elizabeth found positively charming. Pushing the soggy remains of her pie about her plate, Cassie explained, "I don't think that either one of them was really aware that I was even there. Oh, they were dutiful enough, but I don't believe that either actually realized that I was a living, breathing person with emotional needs. Our home was very polite and very proper, but also sterile and loveless. When I was fifteen, I had enough and so I ran."

"How long ago was that?" Elizabeth inquired softly. The girl's description of her former life had been delivered in a dispassionate monotone that was somehow as sterile as the environment she described.

"Three years."

Elizabeth took a long sip of her coffee to mask her incredulity. Still, Cassie discerned her reaction. "It's not all that bad. I've met some cool people along the way and lived my life more fully than my parents ever could for all of their uptown society bullshit."

The last remark had conveyed the first hint of rancor. "Your parents have to miss you Cassie. Have you ever called them or written just to let them know you're okay?"

Cassie shook her head vehemently and raised her limpid eyes to meet Elizabeth's. "I don't ever want to see either one of them again."

Simpson pursed her lips and decided against pursuing the matter. The girl seemed to sink into brooding but after several moments of silence, her face brightened. "A lot of people I meet on the road are great company...look at you, for example. It was great of you to stop like that. Most women traveling alone wouldn't have stopped in a million years."

Elizabeth reached across the table and squeezed Cassie's wrist with a grip that surprised the girl. "One thing I can assure you is that I am not most women. Besides, you looked pretty harmless standing in the rain like a wet puppy."

Elizabeth smiled and withdrew her hand while Cassie went off into a peel of laughter that caused the truck stop patrons to glance over at the pair.

"Seriously, Cassie, when is the last time that you slept in a decent bed?" Elizabeth inquired. The girl turned a pensive glance on her empty plate. "A couple of weeks...I think. Time is funny when you're on the road...it becomes a bit of a blur."

"Well, for the next couple of days, you can look forward to a clean, warm bed every night," Elizabeth promised, wondering if there would eventually be a price to pay for this sudden bout of maternal sentimentality.

Elizabeth paid the cheque and Cassie followed the tall blond back to the Jaguar, her face inscrutable in the gloom. Only her eyes reflected any of the turbulence brewing beneath the pretty mask.

Cassie had said that time had a tendency to blur on the road. In truth, the past seven years of her life had been spent in an obscuring fog of growing madness.

4

Very little of what Cassie Jasic had related to Elizabeth was founded in truth. Elizabeth's preternatural awareness usually alerted her to such blatant deception, but in the case of Cassandra, Elizabeth could not discern the girl's lies because Cassie, herself, had no idea that she was fabricating her own history.

She was definitely not from Cincinnati and had never been there. Cassie had been raised in a small town in Ontario, Canada, fleeing the dreary backwater when madness threatened to totally occlude her sanity. For years, she wandered aimlessly through the north eastern United States, fear and hunger serving as her two constant companions.

On the matter of her parents' occupation, Cassie's account proved no more truthful, though perhaps fervent prayers and fantasy had transformed wishful thinking into the girl's vision of reality. The mother had been a waitress in a truck stop tavern and the father had been an irascible, shiftless man who had never managed to hold a decent job for any length of time.

Cassandra's recollection of her home environment was the product of an ingrained need to escape the horrible reality of her early years. The picture of a sterile opulence would better have been painted in tones of squalor and a constant ugly attention that no child should ever have to suffer.

In the desperation to escape the graphic hell of her childhood, Cassie had fabricated an elaborate family history...bitter and tragic, yet more benign that the one she had actually survived. Somewhere along the way she had lost her tenuous grip on reason.

5

It was just after three O'clock the next day when Elizabeth again resumed the journey west. Beside her, Cassie seemed dreamy and distant, but Elizabeth could feel the girl emanating contentment like a palpable heat.

When Elizabeth had finally managed to locate what seemed to be a relatively habitable hotel, it had been just after two O'clock in the morning and still the storm showed no sign of abating. There had been a strange moment just as the pair had entered the hotel room. Upon entering, Liz had flipped on the lights to reveal a typical mid west hotel room.

"I guess this will do," she declared with a lavish sweep of an arm. "The sheets look fresh even if the décor looks like something from a comic book."

She glanced over her shoulder and abruptly broke off her monologue. Cassie remained rooted by the door, her rigid posture fraught with a sheer and unmistakable terror. Her eyes were saucer wide and glazed as she stared unblinkingly at something only she could see.

Elizabeth crossed the distance between the pair in two strides. When she gripped the girl by the shoulders, Cassie cried out and shifted her gaze to Elizabeth, her large gray eyes indicating no hint of recognition.

"Cassie, what's wrong? What do you see?" Elizabeth prompted gently, trying to maintain her composure in the face of the girl's obvious dread.

"Blood! So much blood," Cassie murmured in a voice that was low and distant like an echo heard from down the length of a twisting hall.

"Cassie, you're beginning to frighten me," Liz intoned firmly and began to shake the girl in the hopes of breaking this trance state that she had fallen into.

The girl then gave her head a tentative shake and in the next moment she was jolted back into the present. Her eyes found Elizabeth's and for a fraction of a moment, Liz thought she could glimpse something hideous and malign as it retreated into the shadow of those lovely eyes. Then Cassie was there, obviously confused and disoriented.

Elizabeth released the girl and stepped away. Cassie glanced around uncertainly and a high, nervous laughter escaped her full lips. As Liz watched the girl closely, she realized that Cassandra had no idea what had just transpired.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Cassandra demanded softly as if in affirmation of Elizabeth's suspicion.

"You don't know what just happened?"

The girl shook her head in an absent way that indicated only partial interest in the question. Elizabeth described the episode, omitting any mention of the girl's reference to blood. Cassie's brow furrowed and then she shrugged her shoulders and remarked, "Isn't that odd?"

Elizabeth decided to allow the matter to rest. The girl walked into the room, tossed her packsack onto a wingback and threw herself spread eagle onto one of the two beds. The girl's pleasure was genuine and Elizabeth's disquiet was momentarily forgotten.

Later, as the girl pulled on a long tee shirt, Elizabeth could not help but notice how prominent the girl's ribs were. When she saw the tattered rags that passed for whatever clothes the girl possessed, she was forced to avert her face to hide the tears that welled up in her eyes.

"At the next town we come to, you and I are going shopping. A girl can't hit California without a new wardrobe," Elizabeth declared with a casual gaiety that she did not feel. Cassandra Jasic was clearly one of life's forgotten casualties, but Elizabeth was determined not to allow the girl to vanish between the cracks of social apathy. The girl sat up and regarded Liz flatly, her gaze taking on an uncharacteristically incisive glare. "Why are you doing this?"

Elizabeth glanced down at her hands and was surprised to find that they were trembling slightly. She was cognizant of the girl's scrutiny and understood that she would have to produce a credible answer if she had any chance of earning the girl's trust.

"I suppose I'm helping you because I'm in a position to do so. Frankly, I have the means and you look like a girl who needs all the help she can get. Maybe I don't really understand why I feel compelled to help you, but I've been fortunate and now I want to give something back.

The girl continued to watch Elizabeth for several moments without comment and then she simply nodded.

Now, as they drove into a darkening sky that threatened another torrential downpour, Elizabeth stole a furtive glance at the girl, who was aimlessly thumbing through the most recent edition of Vogue magazine. Cassie seemed distant...almost reticent today.

Elizabeth's eyes happened down to the glossy magazine cover and her jaw unhinged with an audible pop. "Who is that?"

Cassie glanced up at Elizabeth, surprised by the exigency in the other woman's normally placid voice. She flipped over the magazine and then glanced back at her would be benefactress. "You mean her?"

"Yes, her." Elizabeth remarked with barely restrained impatience.

"I never did ask you where you're from," Cassie said, feigning suspicious disbelief.

"Well, I've spent a lot of years in Europe," Elizabeth declared tightly, her tight grin unable to disguise her mounting exasperation. "Now, give it up Cassie...who is that woman?"

"Maybe you spent the last few years on the moon if you don't know who this is," Cassie remarked quite seriously and then lapsed into a silent study of the flawless countenance captured in laminated splendor. Elizabeth watched the girl and detected the tiny suggestion of a mischievous grin.

"Cassie!" Elizabeth protested, gently poking the girl's shoulder, eliciting a gale of laughter that augmented the girl's beauty exponentially. When the laugher finally subsided, Cassie stammered, "Karnalla Mansley...she's only the hottest fashion model on the entire planet. All of the magazines have crowned her the most beautiful woman in the world...maybe the most beautiful ever."

Cassie then proffered the magazine for Elizabeth's inspection. The girl's assessment had indeed been delivered without embellishment as the woman's beauty was astounding in its magnitude. Elizabeth felt eerily familiar with the slant of Mansley's mouth and the sharp radiance of her beguiling eyes. There could be no denying that Karnalla Mansley was the woman whom Elizabeth had saved from suicide in her recurring dream.

"She certainly is scintillating," Elizabeth murmured and turned her attention back to the task of driving, though her thoughts reeled along a hundred different ominous tangents. Mind whirling, she quickly deduced that the inevitable destination of each would be exasperating confusion.

Karnalla was perhaps the most obscure piece in what was becoming an increasingly ominous puzzle. In the case of Zavora Asari and Gregor Ingram, Elizabeth had been able to discern that both forces had been set in opposition to the other, with Simpson set as the focal point for their conflict. Mansley's purpose was totally obscured by shadow as were the roles of the familiar blond man and the faceless woman.

Cassie regarded the magazine cover with a pensive expression playing over her pretty face. When she spoke, her tone was wistful. "Just for a day...I'd love to be her...to be beautiful and idolized and viewed as something exquisite and valuable."

"Cassie, don't envy the Mansleys of the world too much. They have larger than life images, but quite often they have the larger than life problems to accompany those images. If you could see past the superficial façade, you would discover that women like Karnalla are often haunted and miserable."

"Maybe," Cassie murmured dubiously while tugging at a lock of flaming hair. Elizabeth could certainly understand the girl's skepticism. To a child on the run, constantly flirting with death and starvation, Karnalla Mansley must seem like the summit of a golden mountain. ' _How silly my lecture must seem...and besides, Cassie has never seen Karnalla holding a straight razor to her exposed wrist._ '

"Still, to be beautiful must be fantastic, right? To be valued..." The girl's voice trailed off, it's dying echo rife with pain.

"Cassie, don't you see how beautiful you are?" Elizabeth asked softly. On impulse, she reached over and flipped down the passenger sun visor. Reluctantly, Cassandra Jasic gazed at her reflection and what she saw was a shrewish, distorted face, dominated by crude, ugly features. She abruptly snapped the visor up and turned her face to the window. Hot tears of shame and despair began to roll down her cheeks. "You're beautiful...how could you ever understand what it's like to be ugly?"

Elizabeth coasted the Jag to a stop on the gravel shoulder and leaned across the seat, enfolding the girl in her arms. Cassie tensed, but gradually the stiffness drained from her thin body and she buried her face in the warmth of Elizabeth's neck. In that moment of heightened empathy, Elizabeth Simpson knew that the girl was now hers...perhaps sent her way as a means to atonement for her own transgressions. It was eminently clear that she would never be able to abandon Cassandra to whatever fate the world might hold for her. "Cassie, I don't know who's done this to you...but they're monsters for having done it. You are beautiful...without qualification."

The girl did not respond, but gradually her tears subsided to dull sniffles. "I'm sorry...I'm so stupid."

Elizabeth firmly gripped the girl's chin and brushed the tears aside. "I want you to make me a promise and you can be sure that it's one I intend to hold you to."

"I'll try."

"From now on, you'll not utter a single negative thing about yourself...not one. Promise?"

Cassie gazed directly into Elizabeth's eyes and for the first time, the older woman thought she was being afforded a rare glimpse of the real Cassandra Jasic. What she saw was a frightened, emotionally damaged child in desperate need of reclamation. Despite her own hovering peril, Elizabeth decided that this obligation would fall to her.

6

It was near the Colorado border that the full extent of Cassandra's emotional instability finally revealed itself. Elizabeth had decided to take a secondary highway with the intent of prolonging the trip and hopefully strengthening the emotional bond between the pair.

As had been the case for the past several days, purple thunderheads, the disquieting hue of angry bruises, rose into the sky just above the distant mountains. Eventually, they descended into the foothills accompanied by torrential rain and brilliant bolts of lightening that were apocalyptic in their intensity.

Elizabeth watched the display, experiencing the same sense of contentment that she always did during such moments. Perhaps this distraction was why she failed to perceive the change stealing over her new charge.

"Feel like driving for another hour or so?" Elizabeth inquired. Cassie shrugged and continued to gaze out of the side window, her face lost in the eerie pre-storm twilight.

As Cassie watched the encroaching clouds, she was dimly aware of the distorted faces that were forming on their roiling surface. Illuminated in ghostly white, she saw the faces of the last six people who had picked her up during her aimless journey west.

There had been five men and one woman and now each appeared before her, their identical expressions of disbelief and terror making their faces seem grotesque and monstrous.

Without variation, they had all wanted something from her...all wanted to use her. With the men, it had been sex and with the woman, it had been something else, more subtle, but no less vulgar.

It had been six months since the night that Cassie's tether to sanity had finally severed. The man, a middle-aged logger with a beer gut that had hung nearly to his knees, had pulled his Wrangler pickup into a side road. Cassie had tried to run, but he was deceptively quick despite his girth. He had clamped a meaty paw over her wrist and drew her across the seat and into his lap while his one free hand fumbled with the zipper of his jeans. Then he began to tear her clothes off.

The reek of stale sweat had assailed her then, conjuring forth the ghost of even more horrifying memories. When his throbbing erection had pressed against her belly, a glacial calm descended upon the girl. It was almost as though another more capable presence had usurped control of her body.

She allowed the logger to tear her top away and raise a firm breast to his hungry lips. An alien voice informed her that the man kept a large hunting knife concealed in a leather case immediately behind the driver seat. Without hesitation, she leaned forward and cradled the man's head to her breast.

"I think you're gonna like this," he rasped and set about tearing off her cotton panties.

With her free hand, Cassie groped behind the seat, finally happening upon the handle. Pulling it free of the case, she arched her back and raised the knife above her head.

"And I know you're gonna love this, fucker," she bellowed, though the voice was most definitely not her own.

Then, with bewildering speed and accuracy, she had buried the knife in the left side of the logger's neck. Then she had simply sat there, watching dispassionately as his life blood spewed all over the cab's interior.

When the body finally slumped sideways, Cassandra Jasic whispered, "Love you, Daddy."

This said, she had climbed out of the cab, coolly disposed of her gore-spattering clothing and walked away, keeping the knife as a memento of the episode. This scenario had repeated itself five times over the next six months.

Now as the looming storm rolled towards her like a juggernaut, those six faces appeared before her, urging her to take up the knife again.

"No," Cassie whispered, not wanting to believe that this woman, who seemed so caring and gentle, could ever harm her.

Elizabeth glanced over, sensing a restlessness growing in the girl sitting next to her. "Cassie, are you okay?"

The girl glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wide and unfocused. Elizabeth was gone. In her place was a woman wearing too much makeup, balefully glaring back at her through small pig eyes.

"You worthless little bitch," her mother remarked with livid contempt. "I always said you'd amount to nothing and you've not disappointed me."

Cassie shook her head in negation and averted her eyes, but seconds later a hand clamped down on her shoulder. "Your father wants you home, girl."

"Please stop!" Cassie cried, startling Elizabeth, who braked abruptly and pulled the car onto the shoulder. Cassie bolted from the car, leaving the door swinging open behind her. Elizabeth soon heard the sound of violent retching and was about to go after the girl, when she reappear in the window.

"Cassie, are you ill?" she asked, realizing how foolish the question sounded. The girl shook her head and groped for her leather bag, unceremoniously tossing the clothing onto the dirt shoulder. Watching the girl, Elizabeth's alarm began to mount as blackness radiated from Cassandra in palpable waves.

Suddenly, the girl slipped back into her seat and slammed the door behind her. When her gaze shifted to Elizabeth, the older woman's heart froze. Cassandra's lovely grey eyes were hooded and her mouth was drawn down in a feral snarl. She darted forward and seized Elizabeth's long blond hair in her left hand, while driving her right hand forward. A brief glint of silver in the oddly electric twilight informed Elizabeth that the girl had just drawn a knife even before she felt the cold tip dimple her flesh.

"Cassandra, what are you doing?" she demanded, her voice calm and even.

"Shut up!" the girl raged in a voice that was shrill with frenzy so huge and immutable that Elizabeth could scarcely believe that her slender body could contain it.

Elizabeth could feel her own alter-ego demanding to be released and understood that it was imperative that she diffused Cassie's anger before her own exploded. If Elizabeth's inner demon surged to the fore, Cassandra Jasic would surely die a gruesome death.

"Cassie, I want you to put that knife down right this minute. I know that you're not well, but I can help you, but you must put the knife aside."

"Oh yes, you intend to help alright...just like the others intended to help...but I was way too smart."

Again, Elizabeth felt a pervasive chill touch her heart. "What are you talking about, Cassie? What others?"

"Doesn't matter," Cassie snarled, her face obscured by purple shadows. "What matters is that I'm wise to your shit. Now, you're going to give me your purse and then you're going to get the fuck out of this car!"

Elizabeth's eyes flickered the telltale orange of imminent fury. "Cassandra, I'm not going to give my purse. Nor am I going to get out of this car. You're going to put the knife down and then you and I are going to talk about what's caused this behavior."

"You think that I won't do it? I can and I will." To emphasize her willingness to use the blade, Cassie exerted a slightly greater pressure on the blade. Elizabeth was distantly aware of a pressing sensation in her right side. "The others thought that I wouldn't either...but they learned. Oh yes...Cassandra Jasic is sick of being fucked over. They'd tell you...if they could."

"You've killed someone, Cassie? Tell me why. I promise not to judge you," Elizabeth intoned softly, trying to convey a sense of empathy.

Cassie faltered slightly and the pressure on the knife abated if only marginally. Something flickered in the gray eyes, encouraging Elizabeth to forge ahead. "Cassie, there are things that I haven't told you about myself. I've done violent, terrible things that I was powerless to prevent, so I know how circumstances can force people to commit awful actions."

Cassie lowered her head and Elizabeth contemplated snatching the weapon away. Suddenly, the girl raised her head and Simpson found herself confronted by a living portrait of pain and grief too profound to be articulated by mere words. Then an ebony shadow occluded those lovely gray eyes.

"This is just for you, mother," Cassie intoned with a triumphant growl and then buried the knife deep in Elizabeth's side with a brutal thrust.

Elizabeth recoiled against the Jag's door, her beautiful face contorted by a brief instant of intense pain, quickly subjugated by an eruption of fury.

Cassie glanced down at the knife, anticipating the outpouring of life's blood. When none came, her gaze shifted back to Elizabeth's face, her expression one of almost comical incredulity. Simpson's eyes had turned an irradescent orange. When she spoke, her voice was guttural and terrifying. "I tried to reason with you. Now it's too late. If you want to live, you'd better run."

The girl required no further inducement. Without taking her eyes off the woman's horrifying visage, Cassie reached behind and pulled open the door. With a strident scream, she was gone, though she retained the presence of mind to jerk the knife from the bloodless wound before she fled. Heart trembling wildly, Cassandra fled blindly into the trees that lined the highway. As she ran, her mind reeled under the improbability of what had just transpired. By random chance, she had come upon a predator that far exceeded the limits of her own capabilities and imagination.

Wind and rain lashed her face as she ducked and weaved through the thick foliage. Somewhere behind and off to her left, Cassie heard a sharp snapping of branches and knew that she was being pursued. Her terror grew in leaps and bounds and she veered sharply to her right. As she ran, her right foot became entangled in a gnarled root and she pitched forward, tumbling down a grassy slope and into a shallow ravine.

As she rolled, limbs akimbo, her head struck the trunk of a tree and a starburst of pain exploded in her skull. She lay in the wet grass, her right hand groping blindly for the knife, though a part of her mind was cognizant of the fact that it would avail her nothing against the creature that presently pursued her.

When the nauseating rolling in her stomach finally ceased, she pushed herself to her feet and stood listening for any indication that the creature was nearby. She could hear nothing other than the wind and the falling rain.

The impact of the blow to her head had driven her psychosis back into the deep recesses of her mind. The merciless killer was gone. Scared, vulnerable and perplexed, Cassie tried to fathom why Elizabeth, who had seemed so beautiful and caring, would suddenly attack her so violently. She became aware of the knife, which she had recovered and now held in her right hand, and tried to recall how it had come into her possession.

Cassie was about to toss it away, but a sly whisper advised her that it would be wise to keep it. Shivering with from both the cold and terror, she gazed through the deepening gloom, wondering what to do next.

There was a furtive movement in the trees to her left, leading her to whirl around in time to see a shadow pounce upon her seemingly from out of the stormy heavens. Cassie screamed and scurried backwards, raising the knife to confront her assailant.

Elizabeth glared balefully at the girl through improbable orange eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" Cassie cried, her piercing voice fraught with terror. "What are you?"

Simpson advanced toward the girl, her lips peeled back in a feral snarl. Through the red haze of her fury, she could discern that the girl had changed. Where just moments before there had been cunning and guile, now Cassie displayed only the distraught confusion of a frightened child.

She started forward and Cassie took a compensating step in retreat, jabbing the knife half-heartedly in Elizabeth's direction.

"Put the knife down!" Elizabeth demanded, her eyes flaring dangerously. Crying, her red hair pasted to her skull with rain, Cassie shook her head. Arms down at her side, lips twisted in a wicked grin, Elizabeth advanced steadily upon the girl, who gave ground until her back touched the unyielding trunk of a tree.

"Please!" Cassie wailed miserably as her gray eyes narrowed into slits. Elizabeth stopped before the girl and clamped a hand down on the wrist that held the knife. She forced the girl to drop the weapon with a casual flexing of her powerful fingers.

Slowly, Cassie sank to her knees and slumped forward until her forehead leaned against Elizabeth's thigh. They remained this way for several moments...Cassie kneeling submissively before Elizabeth, awaiting retaliation that would never come. Slowly, the luminous orange glow drained from Elizabeth's eyes as her anger abated. She returned to full awareness to find Cassandra, who was but a child, kneeling before her and crying furiously. She could feel the convulsive shudders of the girl's despair communicated through her own firm flesh.

"Cassie?" she inquired softly. The girl reluctantly glanced up to find that the creature with the dreadful orange eyes was gone. In its place was the beautiful woman who had first rescued her from the side of the highway.

"Please don't hurt me," Cassandra Jasic begged. "I'll go...if that's what you want, but please don't hurt me. I've been hurt enough." Her voice trailed off to a series of hitching sobs.

"Let's get back to the car," Elizabeth whispered, hauling the girl gently to her feet. Then she led the trembling Cassandra Jasic back to the Jaguar that sat on the side of the road with its passenger side door still open.

Chapter Eleven

1

They drove to the nearest motel in utter silence. Elizabeth kept her eyes centered on the road, not wanting to risk a glance at Cassandra until she felt certain that her monumental rage had ebbed away. Like a palpable touch, she was aware of the girl's sideways glances, but she refused to meet them. After awhile, Cassie gave up the effort and contented herself with gazing out the side window and trembling. The beating of the Jag's wipers and the constant hum of the car's heater filled the interior like muted thunder.

They'd stopped at a small, rather shabby motel with a flickering neon sign and tired brown siding. The owner glanced up from his Enquirer, his eyes widening at the sight of the two mud-spattered, rain-soaked women. "Not a great night for a nature hike."

"We had a spot of car trouble, I'm afraid," Elizabeth remarked, her curt tone suggesting that she had no desire to discuss the matter further. Cassie said nothing. Her glassy eyes stared fixedly at the thread bare carpet.

The owner nodded and handed Elizabeth a magnetized card, while she doled out the appropriate amount of cash. He watched as they left the office and walked along the uneven concrete walk to their unit. Once they had vanished inside, the owner picked up the phone and dialed the number he had been given less than a week before.

"Charliss?" a gruff voice inquired.

His heart froze, a thread of ice worming its way into his guts. How could they possibly know it was him...unless they had been waiting exclusively for his call? Suddenly, Charliss found that his hands were clammy and his throat had gone dust bowl dry. The ramifications of this little bit of subterfuge cracked down upon him like a collapsing brick wall. For a moment, he considered hanging up the telephone, but then he recalled the three thousand dollars he'd accepted and realized that this was not a viable option. More compelling still, he thought about the man who had delivered the money. His had been the cold eyes of a dead carp. Charliss knew exactly how such a man would react to any failure to uphold his end of the bargain.

"Yes, it's me," he fumbled at last. "She's here."

"Very good, Mr. Charliss," the voice at the other end responded. "I trust that she is the only occupant of your fine establishment?"

"Yes...just like I promised."

"Excellent. You've performed admirably, Mr. Charliss. You'll receive the final portion of your payment once the woman has been apprehended."

"There's one other thing...she wasn't alone. There was a young girl with her. I'd say she's about seventeen."

There followed a protracted silence and then, "That is well, Mr. Charliss. It is entirely possible that the young girl is being held against her will. This does make the situation all the more delicate. Still, the problem is ours. We merely require that you stay out of the way."

The man was about to disconnect, when on impulse, Charliss asked, "You're not going to hurt them?"

Again, the line was silent and Charliss thought that the man simply would not answer. "The woman is a killer, Mr. Charliss...a glacial, inhuman killer. Still, we intend to apprehend her...unless she forces us to do otherwise."

Then the line did go dead. Charliss sighed and let the handset slip from his grip. Gazing out into the stormy night, he could not reconcile the portrait of a ruthless killer with the image of the statuesque, beautiful blond.

Charliss briefly entertained the notion of going over and warning the woman of the danger, but the image of those dead carp's eyes forestalled that. Instead, he remained behind his counter while his terror escalated with every passing hour.

2

"It's time for absolute honesty...from both of us, Cassie," Elizabeth began in a tone that was at once firm, yet amiable. The girl's eyes flicked up to meet Elizabeth and then quickly shifted back to the floor. She sat on the edge of the sagging bed, clutching her knees defensively and rocking back and forth. Elizabeth could divine fear and confusion at was in the girl's mind. Beyond that, she sensed a vast and infernal presence of which the girl seemed totally oblivious.

"Why did you chase me?" the girl abruptly blurted in a voice that was raw with confusion and bitter resentment. "Your eyes...they were orange...and the way you vaulted through the trees. Did I imagine all of that?" she ventured uncertainly.

"No, you didn't," Elizabeth admitted. The girl's eyes widened in dawning terror, but Elizabeth placed a placating hand on her forearm. In a voice fraught with dark wonder, Cassie asked, "How were you able to do those things?"

Elizabeth sighed, recognizing the need for delicate honesty. "I'm not human...though there was a time when I was."

"Are you a...a vampire or something?" To Elizabeth's surprise, the girl seemed more fascinated than frightened by the notion. Clapping her hands together, Elizabeth threw back her head and uttered a disarming laugh. "Good heavens, no! I suppose I could best be described as a demon, though that word is a misnomer...at least, in my case. I have no affiliation with Satan or black magic. I prefer to think of myself as an immortal."

Cassie gazed at Elizabeth, awe momentarily subjugating confused terror. Elizabeth squeezed the girl's arm. "Believe me, Cassie, mine is not a condition to envy. It has cost me everything that I have ever loved or held sacred."

A shadow rippled briefly across the girl's face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. Simpson sat down on the edge of the bed and took the girl's hand. "Cassie, do you have no recollection of what happened back out on the highway?"

The girl regarded Elizabeth with large, uncomprehending eyes. Hesitantly, she murmured, "I remember running through the trees and coming back to myself at the bottom of the ravine. You were chasing me, but I had no idea why."

"You tried to kill me, Cassie. You took a knife from inside your packsack and demanded that I give you my money and get out of the car. When I refused, you stabbed me in the side." Elizabeth stopped, scrutinizing the girl's face for any sign of recollection.

Cassie stood up quickly, shaking her head in vehement denial. "That's crazy! I would never do that...couldn't do that. Besides, I've never owned a knife in my life."

Rather than debate the issue, Elizabeth undid the sash of her white robe and exposed her ribcage. The stab wound in her right side was virtually healed, but still visible and livid enough to be unmistakable. Cassie regarded the wound, her right hand coming unconsciously to cover her mouth. Tears began to well at the corners of her limpid eyes.

"I did that?" Cassie demanded, already shaking her head in negation. Elizabeth merely nodded.

Cassie suddenly lurched backwards, tumbling into a worn armchair. In her mind, there reverberated that titanic roar of crumbling walls that had long served to incarcerate her most terrifying nightmares. Immense and repulsively graphic, the memories flooded back in a sickening rush.

Elizabeth hurried to the girl, cognizant of the fact that Cassie was teetering on the brink...gazing down into the pit of her own personal madness. What demons did she see there? Elizabeth did not know, but she was determined to find out.

"Cassie, before you actually stabbed me, you said that there had been others...six specifically. You said that you'd killed them." Elizabeth had delivered the last phrase in a whisper as if this could somehow attenuate the blow of revelation. The girl's eyes widened and her mouth twisted into a soundless, apoplectic cry of denial. Just then, the compartments that had long held Cassandra Jasic's psychosis exploded into fragments, spewing forth remembrance like pus from a suppurating wound.

Now, Cassie did scream and began to flail at herself, beating her lovely face with clenched fists. Elizabeth seized her in an immobilizing bear hug and rolled onto of the girl to prevent her from harming herself. Frienzied, Cassie struggled and hissed like an enraged tiger, but the efforts to free herself proved futile.

"Stop it, Cassie!" Elizabeth cried into the girl's ear, but her words could not penetrate the storm of emotions raging in Cassandra's mind. Quickly, Elizabeth rolled the girl over, pinioning her arms beneath her legs and gripping her face in powerful hands.

"Stop your thrashing!" The imperative exploded in Cassie's mind with the force of a detonating artillery shell. Stunned, the girl's struggles abruptly ceased. She stared fixedly into Simpson's blue eyes while the immortal imposed her will on the girl's mind, bringing the outburst to a sudden end.

Once the girl had grown calm, Elizabeth began to glean the dark and brooding secrets from the ruins of Cassandra Jasic's memory. One by one, she reconstructed memories of the deadly encounters with the six people who had picked the girl up along highways in five states. With two of the six had been motivated by perverse opportunism, the other four had been genuinely seeking to help the seemingly angelic and vulnerable girl. Finally cognizant of her murderous secret, Cassie moaned as large tears streamed over the high ridges of her cheek bones.

"It's okay, Cassie," Elizabeth murmured automatically. "Why, Cassie? Do you have any idea why you did those things?"

The girl hesitated, her face blanched by immutable grief. Elizabeth forged ahead. "Cassie, I have no intention of judging you, but if you're ever to exorcise the demons that have driven you to murder, you must first come to a thorough understanding of their motives."

Cassie turned her face away, shaking her head vehemently. Elizabeth frowned at the girl's adamant refusal to relent, but persisted in trying to draw her out. Beneath her, Cassie's body felt like a knotted tangle of coiled springs. "The trucker...the one who tried to rape you...is he the one you see and hear before these moments of disorientation?"

The girl peered directly into Elizabeth's eyes as if searching for something that would welcome a mutual trust. Again, Cassie shook her head and averted her eyes. Simpson could clearly discern that she was poised on the edge of the abyss. In its depth, she glimpsed a hell of humiliation and betrayal...a grim world where even the familiar was baleful and insidious.

Cassie wanted desperately to work her dubious magic and disappear while the old consuming rage usurped control of her body. Now, held in the thrall of this angelic tormentor, she found herself with no alternative but to face the belligerent ghosts that had first driven her around the rim into madness.

"Noooo!" the howl tore from her lungs and her body abruptly arched violently, nearly pitching Elizabeth to the carpeted floor. The girl could now clearly distinguish the two long-buried ghosts that were scrambling to break free from their mental confinement and run rampant in her conscious thoughts where she would be powerless to contain them. Elizabeth clamped a hand over Cassandra's mouth and pushed her head back into the pillow, astounded by the enormity of the girl's dementia. She wondered how any human vessel could possibly hold such repressed anger and misery.

"Cassie, do you have any idea what' driven you to this? Tell me, please. There's nothing that I won't do to help you, but you've got to help me and...calm down."

Gradually, with titanic effort, the rigidity began to drain from Cassie's body and the girl stared up at her would-be rescuer with a glazed expression.

"Do you know what makes you angry?" Elizabeth enquired in a deliberately soft and placating voice. Eventually, Cassandra nodded, though the admission came at an obviously exorbitant price.

"Can you tell me about it, Cassie?"

The reaction was an immediate and vigorous refusal. Elizabeth considered the girl with a sharp gaze of appraisal. "Can you picture what's happened to make you ill, Cassie? In your mind, can you picture those who've hurt you?"

Reluctantly, the beautiful, but fragile and severely damaged girl nodded. Elizabeth relaxed the hand that had been clamped over the girl's mouth. "Cassie, I want you to listen carefully. We have a tendancy to hold dark secrets like pernicious poison until they grow into something monstrous and uncontrollable. If you are ever to have any chance of being well, you have to purge that poison. That healing process starts the moment you give these dark secrets expression and drag them into the light of day...stake them out in the sunlight like the vampires you mentioned. You needn't speak, Cassandra. Just open your mind and let the images come."

The naked trepidation in Cassie's gray eyes wrenched Elizabeth's heart, but Simpson refused to relent, knowing that there may never be another opportunity to purge the girl's particular poison. Cold sweat slicked the girl's brow and her eyes reminded Simpson of a frightened horse trapped in a raging brush fire. Slowly, tenderly, Elizabeth began to probe the edges of Cassandra Jasic's consciousness.

Sensing an irrefutable truth in Elizabeth's plea, Cassie slowly surrendered, allowing the ineffable atrocities of the past to flow into the present.

An unsuspecting Elizabeth extended her mind into the dark labyrinth and suddenly found herself plunged into the horrible vortex that had once been Cassandra Jasic's life.

3

The room was stiflingly hot and oppressively humid. Somewhere, in one of the other rooms, water dripped with infuriating monotony into a metal basin. Cassie lay on her narrow cot, the broken springs poking into the pale flesh of her lower back.

The girl was oblivious to the discomfort. Only the discordant, sometimes combative clamor that issued from the next room consumed her attention. She could discern every repulsive grunt and each responsive peel of tittering laughter.

This was the precursor to her own degradation...their drunken, primal coupling would always lead to the perverse.

Elizabeth witnessed this through the livid, screaming lens of Cassie's memory. With dawning horror and comprehension, she came to grasp the source of Cassandra Jasic's madness and knew that she was helpless to prevent it.

The girl, who had just recently turned fourteen, curled into a tight ball and began to weep quietly. Not wanting to be heard but powerless to prevent the flow of tears, Cassie fervently prayed that they would spend themselves without need of her.

Despite that prayer, mere moments later, the door to her closet of a room burst open. Cassie swung about, raising herself on one elbow and shaking her head in negation.

They stood in the doorway, intoxicated and utterly naked, gazing at their beautiful daughter with bleary eyes.

"Time to play, girlie," her father rasped in a voice slurred by alcohol and lust. Cassie uttered an inarticulate wail of anguish and pulled the sheet up around her chin. Her mother pushed her way into the room, still clutching the near empty wine bottle by the neck. "Don't be a defiant little brat!"

Both Cassie and Elizabeth immediately realized something that would haunt the pair there ever after...the mother was perfectly lucid. Her heinous violation of her own daughter could not be attributed to drunken lust. In a blazing glare of revelation, both women understood that the mother was motivated by jealousy and spite.

Towering over Cassie, she abruptly upended the contents of the wine bottle into the girl's face. Sputtering, Cassie released the sheet and attempted to wipe the burning wine from her eyes, while the older woman ripped the sheet away and threw it to the floor.

"Maybe that will sweeten her disposition," the mother remarked, prompting a spate of ugly laughter from her husband. Seizing a fist full of red hair, she unceremoniously ripped the flimsy nightshirt away to reveal a flawless body well down the road to womanhood.

"Now you're going to do what you mother wants because no one likes an ungrateful bitch," the older woman announced gruffly before settling down atop the squirming girl. With her breath reeking of cheap wine and cigarettes, she kissed Cassie, forcing her tongue into the girl's mouth while prying her long legs open with her right knees.

As she abused her daughter, Cassie's father leaned back against the door jam, languorously stroking his penis. Gripping Cassie's hair, she pulled her head back and arched her back so her taut nipples were poised over the girl's mouth. Cassie strained frantically and attempted to twist her head. The mother gave the long flaming locks a petulant jerk and Cassandra's mouth popped open allowing the mother to press her heavy breast into the girl's face. "Don't pretend you don't like it. When you were a baby, you were a greedy brat who couldn't get enough."

Despite her years of self-abuse, the older woman was solid and deceptively strong and Cassie was helpless beneath her. Knowing that resistance would only encourage their sadism, she began to swirl her tone around the turgid nipple. Gripping the girl by her shoulders, the mother rolled onto her back, dragging Cassie along with her. Firmly, she pressed the girl downward, locking a muscular leg around the girl's shoulders. Repulsed, yet captive, Cassie resigned herself to her humiliation.

Aroused by the sorry spectacle, the father pushed himself away from the door and crossed over to the creaking bed. As he knelt on the bed behind his daughter, the mother began to moan, building in crescendo to a scream of pleasure. After her orgasm, she placed a foot on the side of Cassie's face and disdainfully pushed her away. Then she laid back, large breasts heaving, until the last of the tremors subsided.

Finally, she glanced up at her drunken spouse, unmindful of her daughter's wretched sobs. He regarded her with eyes of burning anthracite. His raspy breath and rigid penis declared the full extent of his agitation. She offered the man a ruthless grin, while thrusting the sole of her foot into Cassie's face. "Do you want our little girl?"

The man issued a guttural growl and nodded ardently. The mother smiled and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Then, pulling Cassie by the long hair, she dragged the struggling girl from the bed and pushed her onto her knees on the scarred wooden floor.

"Now, you're gonna be a good little brat and show daddy just how much you love him," the older woman growled. Hot tears of humiliation rolled from Cassie's luminous gray eyes. She tried frantically to detach herself from her own body, but found that she was firmly rooted in her own tortured flesh. The man gazed down upon her, his insipid pig eyes glazed with heat. Cassie's mother slapped her face at the first hint of reluctance. Then she took hold of the girl's wrist and laid her hand on his throbbing erection.

He then pushed the head of his penis against her lips and began grinding insistently until she relented and took its length into her mouth. Driven by cruelty, the older woman leaned her torso against Cassie's back, pressing the girl between the pair of assailants.

"She's been such a naughty little bitch...punish her!" she exhorted as the man began to piston his hips in a frenzy.

Later, after what seemed an eternity of degradation, the father lay in the other room, spent and sleeping. Cassie lay dazed and unblinking on her bed, staring fixedly at the ceiling. As the still naked mother returned to her room, Cassie cringed and began to whimper at the sight of the knotted length of rope.

"Now, you despicable little whore...I'm on to the way you've been playing up to my man...flaunting yourself like the slut you are. Now, you're gonna get your comeuppance!" the mother seethed between clenched teeth, radiating madness like a palpable heat.

"Please, momma, don't...please!" Cassie begged in a voice made quivering and shrill with terror. The girl's pleas only served to further enrage the mother. Later, Cassie would come to conclude that it had been her mother, embittered and wrathful shrew that she was, who had first come to orchestrate the reign of terror that would eventually drive the girl into the hot, black embrace of insanity. What might have inspired her mother to this extreme and unfathomable cruelty was well beyond the girl's ability to fathom.

Seeing the malicious delight gleaming in the woman's eyes, Cassie knew that she could expect no quarter. As the mother approached the bed, the girl rolled into a tight ball. "You've always been a willful bitch, but I've got more than enough energy to beat that willfulness right the fuck out of you."

The bite of the rope knot was excruciating and it fell repeatedly until Cassie spun away into darkness.

Elizabeth snapped back into the present with a sharp cry of horror. She embraced Cassie, who slumped despondently against the older woman while her body shuddered convulsively. Simpson cradled the girl to her shoulder, murmuring trite words of solace that rang woeful and ineffective in her own ears. Her eyes blazed with orange effulgence of extreme rage. In her frustration, she knew that she could find nothing upon which to vent her anger. The perpetrators of this most heinous of crimes were miles beyond her reach. The best Elizabeth could do was draw deep, unsteady breaths until their rampant emotions finally ran their course.

Finally, Cassie peeled herself away. Her lovely face was twisted and homely with despair. "Why? Why would they do that to me? I was their little girl...what could I have done to make them hate me so much?"

Unexpectedly, tears burst from Elizabeth's eyes. Despite the enormity of her parents' crime, Cassandra was still searching for to exonerate them and place the burden of blame squarely on her own shoulders. Gripping Cassie's shoulders, Elizabeth began to shake the girl slowly and emphatically. "Don't you ever blame yourselves for what those two bastards did to you."

Cassie shook her head and wailed, "If I'd tried harder...listened more closely, maybe she wouldn't have hated me so much."

"No, dammit!" Elizabeth countered hotly. "I've told you what I am. There was a time when I did unspeakable things. I've walked with evil...lived with it. I've even slept with it. Your parents were pure and unadulterated evil, Cassandra. They deserve to die for what they've done to you. So don't suggest to me that you're to blame...for anything."

Cassie considered this thoughtfully, absently wiping away tears from her cheek. Peering into the arctic blue depths of Elizabeth Simpson's exquisite eyes, Cassandra Jasic was shocked to find unconditional absolution.

"I never wanted to kill anyone," she murmured softly. Elizabeth pulled the girl into her arms, tenderly stroking her hair. "I know you didn't, sweetheart, and I don't hold you responsible for what you've done, but it has to stop here and now. Your illness has forced you to live your life in disjointed fragments and allowed the poison to fester in your heart, but you've taken the first step towards healing tonight...can you see that?"

The girl offered her new mentor a ponderous nod to which Elizabeth returned a brilliant smile. The girl bowed her head and trembled violently. "All of my life, I've never know what it's like to be loved. I've come to think that I don't deserve to be."

Elizabeth shook her head in a negation, unable to stem the tears that flowed in remorse for this beautiful creature's abject torment. She offered a fervent prayer that the damage would not prove irreversible.

"Cassie, I'm going to help you...if you'll allow me to," Elizabeth vowed solemnly. "You'll have to place your trust in me. In turn, I expect absolute honesty. Do we have a deal?" She extended her hand to Cassandra with an exaggerated sense of formality. The girl did not smile, instead staring back at Simpson with an expression of incredulity that was tempered by instinctive suspicion. "You'll let me stay with you after all that I've done?"

Elizabeth nodded. "There are things that I've done that are not greatly different, though unlike you, I'm partly responsible for what's happened to me. You and I are kindred sisters and I refuse to judge you for the sins of your parents.

A brilliant, bewitching smile broke over Cassandra Jasic's face and she accepted Elizabeth's hand. "I'm sorry for having attacked you, Elizabeth."

Simpson dismissed this with a flourish of her left hand. "We're going to concentrate on getting you well. If you wish, you can travel with me, though I must warn you that keeping my company may quickly become dangerous. There are a host of enemies that would like nothing more than to see me dead and if given the chance to achieve that end, I doubt they would be particularly discriminating. I'll do everything that I can to protect you, but there is a possibility that I might fail. It's imperative that you understand this."

Simpson lapsed into silence. Cassie considered Elizabeth's warning, though not for long, and then replied, "You're the first person I've ever met who displayed any genuine concern for me. You've forced me to realize that I'm ill. Maybe it will be dangerous to travel with you, but it would be far worse to drift back to the way I was before tonight. If you let me, I'll stay with you and take my chances with whatever comes."

Neither woman could have suspected that this eventuality was converging upon them with open talons.

4

The federal team had long since departed, leaving Carver, Broderick and Dr. Asari alone in the meeting hall of the Order of the Silver Goddess. Once alone, Asari turned to Broderick, privately amused by his openly disconcerted expression. "Well detective, what do you think of our order?"

The subtle undertone of jubilant vindication in Asari's voice was not lost upon Broderick, who could not help but be impressed by the procession of accomplished women who he had interviewed over the past three hours. "I must admit that they're a pretty impressive collection."

Zavora smiled and not for the first time, Broderick noticed just how lovely the doctor really was when she let the austere façade slip. Her gray eyes were thoroughly engaging and her gray knit dress clung sufficiently to hint at an exquisitely feminine figure concealed beneath. He had already reached the conclusion that the Doctor and her circle of associates were not murderers or religious terrorists. Carver noticed his partner's distraction, correctly deduced the cause and smiled, knowing that the hardnosed Broderick was smitten by the erudite Asari. "Yes see, detective, the women of the order are all well-adjusted women and not maniacal lesbians bent on bringing evil to unsuspecting males everywhere. We are merely women whose religious beliefs do not happen to coincide with the norm."

Broderick nodded. "The agent told me that the pins have all been accounted for."

"As I told you they would," Zavora interjected. She hesitated for a moment and then added, "This may be presumptuous of me, but has it ever occurred to you that your investigation might be better focused Gregor Ingram and his revisionist fanatics?"

Broderick and Carver exchanged puzzled glances and then the sergeant demanded, "Perhaps you'd better explain that remark."

Asari stood up and began to pace around the raised dais while the two detectives watched her appreciatively. "Not long ago, Ingram singles out our particular order as the primary target for his pogrom of religious cleansing. He does so on national television in a manner that makes it apparent that there are no limits to which he will not go to eradicate our little group. What he is essentially talking about is a declaration of war. That very day, I am attacked by a religious fanatic on public television. I would hazard that the odds are quite good that the assailant is a member of Ingram's flock."

A speculative gleam had dawned in Broderick eyes. "How exactly would this tie into the murder of Halston and the Church bombing?"

Zavora nodded, coming to a halt directly before the pair. "This is where you'll have to indulge me. Allowing that you now longer suspect me or members of my order, it follows that someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to make it appear that we are responsible for both horrendous crimes. Who would have any motivation to go to such extreme and vile lengths to see the order destroyed? Gregor Ingram has made it perfectly clear that he is intent on our destruction."

"You're implying that Ingram may have had his own church blown up?" Carver demanded in a voice fraught with incredulity.

Zavora regarded the detective flatly and replied, "That is exactly what I'm suggesting."

"Doctor, that is a pretty serious allegation," Broderick advised, but already tiny internal wheels had begun to turn.

Zavora turned her formidable gaze upon Broderick, challenging and unrepentant. "The fact is that the Gregor Ingram's of this world have always chosen the female witch as the target for their paranoid fantasies. How did he come to fix upon our order? Quite frankly, I can conjure no logical explanation for that. We are prudent enough to maintain an extremely discreet profile and it is entirely possible that he came upon the order by chance alone. Perhaps you would do well to direct your investigation at the elder. History demonstrates that religious fanatics are not encumbered by adherence to the law...or even morals. The greater purpose justifies the means, detective Broderick."

Broderick absorbed this thoughtfully as Zavora watched the detective in silence. "If this is true, then the members of your order may be in grave danger and you, Doctor Asari, would be at the top of the hit list."

Asari signified her understanding with a grim nod. "Women understand what it's like to be victims, detective. Fear is a constant companion for many of us. Ingram has only served to put a specific face on that fear. I realize that all of this is conjecture on my part, but you could at least consider that idea."

"We will," Broderick promised. Turning to Carver, he remarked, "What do you say we head back to the city?"

Carver nodded and Broderick turned by to the doctor. "We appreciate your cooperation, Dr. Asari. There may be more questions, but probably not on this scale. I have to admit that I'm impressed by your order and if I seemed curt initially, I apologize."

"Accepted," Asari replied simply as she led the pair toward the main doors of the hall.

"When do you intend to return to the city?" Broderick inquired evenly.

Asari glanced sharply at the detective. "Probably early tomorrow morning. Any particular reason you're asking?"

"I'm going to take you're suggestion regarding Ingram under advisement. If there is even a remote possibility that the man has went to such extreme lengths to implicate you and your order, it is likely that he won't rest there. I'm just asking you to check in with our office from time to time so that we know everything is alright."

Asari agreed that she would keep in contact and walked the two men to their sedan. The compound lot was still full and Carver asked, "So the other women have decided to stay on?"

"There's going to be a conclave tonight. We're going to pray to the Goddess for spiritual guidance in this matter."

The two detectives exchanged glances but remained tactfully silent.

5

The two men drove through the verdant splendor of northern Vermont, windows rolled down against the sultry night air. Broderick drove, while Carver occasionally glanced at his partner, a smirk playing at his lips.

Broderick finally became aware of the furtive scrutiny and demanded gruffly, "What the hell are you gawking at, Carver?"

"A love bird, I sorta think," Carver chimed. As Broderick rounded a thickly treed curving section of highway, he was momentarily blinded by the halogen glare of a string of approaching headlights. He watched in the rearview mirror as the taillights eventually winked out of sight. Something about the sudden appearance of a caravan-like concentration of vehicles struck a discordant note in his mind. Despite the warmth and humidity of the New England night, he saw that the flesh on his forearms had risen into hackles. Shaking his head in exasperation, he turned his attention to Carver's barb.

"Look, Carver, I'm a big enough man to admit I've been wrong. I misjudged the kind of people who would be members of a Wiccan order. For that matter, I may have judged Zavora too harshly."

"Zavora is it now?" Carver remarked affecting a perfect Irish brogue.

"Doctor Asari is forthright, pragmatic and obviously intelligent. There is a certain charm and class about the lady."

"Well at least you didn't refer to her as a broad, though you did neglect to mention that she's particularly attractive," Carver pointed out.

"Oh, she is that," Broderick admitted and the two men laughed, but when the laughter subsided, the older detective found that the cold inkling of impending disaster continued to mock him like half-glimpsed shadows from beyond the edge of the surrounding forest.

"Do you think there could be anything to her allegations about Ingram" he asked soberly.

"It's an interesting possibility, though Ingram would have to be a psychotic of monumental proportions to engineer something so utterly reprehensible. The motive is the most perplexing variable in that scenario, but as the good doctor has already so astutely observed, he has already declared war on her order."

Broderick considered this in silence for a moment and then the seed of a notion germinated in his mind. "Do recall looking at the map that the doctor provided for us prior to leaving Boston?"

"Yes." Carver replied slowly, cognizant of the sudden change in his partner's demeanor...the thickening of the tension in his voice and the tightening of his posture.

"Do your recall if the road branched out just beyond the compound of if there were any occupied lots just beyond the order's property?" The exigency in Broderick's voice was unmistakable. Carver conjured the map's image in his mind to confirm what he already knew to be true.

"No, the road terminates about three hundred yards past the entrance to the compound. One of the Feds checked it out before they conducted the interviews."

"Good Christ!" Broderick exclaimed and the two men exchanged identical glances of dawning horror.

"I guess there's not much chance that they were a gang of lost fishermen?" Broderick wondered grimly to which Carver merely shook his head. Broderick jammed on the brakes and executed a wild reverse u-turn, nearly sending the sedan into the far ditch in the process.

"I think we should be certain our friends have evil intentions toward the good doctor before we call the cavalry," Broderick observed, upon seeing Carver reach for his cell phone. The two men sped through the Vermont night, deftly avoiding the potholes and rutted sections of pavement, driven to the edge of recklessness by the powerful intuition that something ineffably horrible was about to transpire.

That certitude was confirmed in brutally graphic terms the minute the pair rounded the final curve before the compound.

"What the fuck!" Broderick exclaimed and dragged the wheel hard to the left. The thing standing in the center of the road was a living construct of flame, burning red, orange, blue and white in turns. As the flames snapped and licked at the night air, the figure's edges became indistinct, but the general outline was unmistakably human.

In the seconds before Broderick steered the vehicle around the creature, his eyes locked on the argent orbs that must have passed for the eyes of the monstrosity. It greeted him with a malefic grin and remarked blithely, "Suffer not the witch, friend. I believe there's some burning to be done."

The implication exploded in Broderick's mind like a nova burst. Uttering a cry of negation, he glanced back over his shoulders and was greeted with baffling perspective of an empty roadway.

"The road, Michael," Carver exclaimed, his normally placid voice livid with fright. Broderick whipped his head about and reacted a half second too late to prevent the car from sailing over the shoulder and colliding with a large outcrop on the far side of the shallow drainage ditch.

The silence was cleft by the sickening crunch of metal, followed by the muffled explosion of glass, metal and human flesh. Broderick's inability to subjugate his ego and call for assistance had cost both he and Carver their lives. Before the night was over, others would be forced to pay a similar price for his hubris.

Chapter Twelve

1

Zavora Asari watched the two detectives drive away, pleased by the way she had adroitly handled the interrogation crisis. Her fellow Wiccans had conducted themselves with an air of professionalism and refinement that had quickly dispelled any preconceptions that police might has harbored towards her order. She had been especially pleased that the subject of her appearance on Halston's scurrilous show had not been raised. These men were much too cynical and narrow-minded to ever accept the notion of a divine emissary similar to the Christian Jesus.

Walking back into the main building, Asari crossed to her private office, shedding her grey dress as she went. She had been aware of Broderick's furtive scrutiny of her body throughout the day and wondered how he would react to the knowledge that she had been quite naked beneath her deliberately conservative attire. She sensed an attraction there and wondered if it might be worth exploring. Then she shook her head and uttered a self-deprecating laughter, wondering how she could ponder such superfluous things when her order had reached a pivotal juncture in its history.

Still, it had been rather clever the way she had implanted the possibility that Gregor Ingram might well be the author of the tale of terror that had befallen his own church. No doubt, Broderick and Carver would pursue the possibility. Even if this didn't lead directly to the demise of Ingram, it should effectively serve to curtail his campaign of terror against her order.

Zavora donned her ceremonial robe and slippers, smoothing the fabric over the tight curve of her hips. Hopefully Ingram would be hindered enough to allow her adequate time to decipher the Goddess' intentions in the matter of the Golden Witch. From this riddle, perhaps Zavora could glean a way of best serving those intentions.

Pulling the ceremonial mask over her face, Asari quickly left the building and hurried along the narrow path that led to the clearing where the others awaited her arrival. As she ran, her body was suffused by a sense of wellbeing and spiritual contentment. The true Zavora Asari emerged then...a wild and uninhibited creature of nature. Again, she found herself contemplating how Michael Broderick might react to this aspect of her nature.

The women were arranged in the customary circle, patiently awaiting the arrival of their priestess. Most shared Zavora's feeling of elation. The sultry night was certainly conducive to the celebration of the old traditions and like Zavora, many felt a certain serenity that came with the opportunity to dispense with their public facades.

Asari watched the women from the concealment of the shadows, basking in the intense love that she felt towards each of them. These were her sisters and the only family that she had ever known before heeding the call of the ancient ways. Striding to her place at the head of the circle, she raised her arms to the heavens and offered her thanks for the wise and continuing guidance of their Goddess.

With a throaty vehemence, Zavora declared, "Light the fire!"

Before the Wiccan could drop the phosphorus crystals into the pit, the silence was shattered by a resounding explosion. A brilliant ball of orange fire appeared above the trees to the south.

Simultaneously, the trees that ringed the clearing erupted in dozens of smaller blazes. Zavora gazed about in stupefied wonder, not yet digesting that her coven was in serious danger. The flames seemed to hover in the air like disembodied spirits.

Suddenly, the central pit exploded in a blinding argent mushroom of light and heat. To a one, the women screamed and scrambled back and many fled in outright panic. Hovering and shimmering in the silver bank of flames, Zavora could clearly discern the shape of the entity. It regarded her with the gleeful malice of unadulterated evil. "It's your day of reckoning, bitch!"

The voice, fraught with fury and dripping venom, finally succeeded in breaking Asari's paralysis.

"Run!" she exhorted and the remaining witchs broke ranks and fled. The night reverberated with the titanic rumble of the demon pyre and the shrill, terrified cries of the fleeing woman.

Asari stood defiantly before the looming demon. "What do you want of us?"

"I think you know," the entity quipped sardonically. Asari's eyes widened. The inference was clear and terrible in its implications. "The emissary!"

Crude laughter rumbled from the flames. "The emissary? You ingenuous sheep...how does it feel knowing that your life has been squandered in worship of a rogue demon?"

"That's a blatant lie!" Asari retorted an instant before a silver tongue of flame jumped towards her. A second before she was engulfed, another Wiccan reached for her robe and yanked her clear.

"Run towards the trees, Zavora!" the masked figure implored. "Those men have come for us." The Wiccan raised a grass-stained arm and pointed towards the opposite side of the clearing where dark-robed figures were converging upon the chaos, torches extended like ceremonial crosses.

Asari shook her head in stubborn refusal, but the figure hauled her away from the towering flames and then propelled her roughly towards the trees. Zavora stumbled, fell, but then rose and shuffled reluctantly into the thick stand of pines.

A staccato burst of gunfire added to the pandemonium. Zavora froze for a fraction of a second and then instinctively threw herself to the ground. ' _They're killing us_ ," she realized dejectedly. Raising her head, she was horrified to discover that several white-shrouded figures were sprawled on the grass near the head of the path that led back to the compound. Several of the intruders had surrounded a trio of women and were prodding them back in the direction of the fire demon.

Zavora looked on in helpless outrage as several of the black-robed figures tore the robes from her sisters and battered them to the ground with a savage volley of kicks and punches. Seizing the trio by the hair, the intruders threw the three women unceremoniously into the roiling flames.

The tortured screams of pain were too horrific to endure and Asari clamped her hands to her head in a vain attempt to filter them out, but found that she could not escape the shrill cries of agony. Engulfed in a silver mantle of fire, the trio thrashed frantically in a futile attempt to douse the flames. After what seemed like an eternity, that thrashing ceased and the three collapsed lifelessly onto the floor of the ceremonial pit, where their remains continued to burn unabated. Now the clearing had become a Golgotha. Those who could not escape were quickly rounded up and herded towards the flames.

The nightmare assumed Goyan overtones then for somewhere on the east side of the clearing, six robed figures produced a large wooden cross with a four-footed base, which they then position near the pyre. Another group dragged a naked Wiccan to the cross, their intentions brutally obvious. Not knowing what else to do, Zavora slipped back into the shadows and fell to her knees, raising her arms to the heavens in desperate supplication. She prayed quickly and fervently for divine intervention against the slaughter.

Instead, a vivid image of the blonde emissary flashed in her mind...a single beacon in this dark madness. In that moment, Zavora understood that there would be no intervention on this night. Her sisters were to become martyrs for some greater cause that she could not fully comprehend. Her role was one of simple survival so that she could chronicle what had transpired on this night and then take up the quest for the Golden Witch.

In complying with this imperative, Asari rose and was about to flee into the absolute darkness of the deeper forest, when a figure appeared at the head of the path, escorted by four armed intruders. Unlike the others, this man did not wear a black robe, but rather a flowing, voluminous white cassock. Even from afar, Zavora recognized the face of her avowed enemy...Gregor Ingram.

Brandishing the bible like a mystical talisman, the Revisionist leader came forth like Joshua. When he issued his instructions, his voice seemed to thunder over the clearing like the very trumpet of redemption and retribution.

"Bring the miscreant!" he commanded and the men dragged the unfortunate Wiccan towards Ingram and forced her to her knees before him. He regarded her with an expression of smug contempt. "You have defied the word and will of all mighty God. You are unrepentant and incorrigible in your transgression and thus only one penance is fitting."

With a curt nod, Ingram signaled that the men should take the woman and lay her on the stem of the cross. As Asari watched, her body shuddered with revulsion, but found herself utterly mesmerized by the grim spectacle of crucifixion.

The harrowing screams of agony bit indelibly into Asari's mind as the Iron spikes were driven into the victim's ankles and wrists. Ingram looked on dispassionately as the cross was raised before the pyre. Staring down, he spotted something lying in the grass near his feet. He bent over to retrieve the object and held it up for inspection. From her place of concealment in the pines, Zavora recognized it to be her ceremonial mask depicting the lunar aspect of Artemis.

"Pagans!" Ingram muttered in disgust and then threw the mask into the fire. It flared for a moment and was gone...a symbolic defilement that pierced Zavora's heart. Ingram stepped away from the pyre and shouted, "Our work here is done. Spread out and scour the forest. If you come across any of the devil's harlots, kill them."

Then he was gone, a retinue of armed guards trailing after him like obsequious dogs. Gradually, the others broke into small teams and began to drift towards the woods. Asari knew that she should run, but found that she hesitated, stilled by the need to emboss the night's carnage firmly in her mind's memory. Slowly, deliberately, she counted forty-two sprawled forms littering the once sacred grass of the ceremonial site. They had shared celebration of the feminine being here and had enjoyed the rites of passage and instruction. Now it had all become a sullied killing ground...its magic irrevocably lost.

The sheer horror of the atrocity struck her then...those bodies arranged on the common like an indecipherable hieroglyph that perhaps validated this outrage.

"You'll pay, you sanctimonious bastard!" Zavora vowed to the heavens. "For every outrage, you'll pay tenfold." Then, she too was gone, disappearing into the deeper forest like a wraith.

2

The metronomic patter of rain against the loose glass pane roused Elizabeth from what passed for sleep. For the demon, a somnolent state of lesser awareness was the only respite to be had.

Elizabeth stood up and stretched, glancing over at the vague, still-sleeping form of her room mate. After Cassie's dramatic and emotional revelation, the pair had talked for hours. In a slow, deliberate narrative, the girl had described the years of sexual abuse to which she had been subjected by her parents. The monologue had concluded with her flight to the United States and the travails of her life on the road. Like Pandora's Box, the revelations had sprung forth the repressed memories of her brutal killing spree. Jasic had shuddered in revulsion as she recounted the graphic details of her crimes, though her facial expression conveyed none of what she was feeling on the inside. Watching the girl, Elizabeth could almost believe that Cassandra was recounting the tale of something she had experienced only vicariously.

Finally exhausted by the night of trauma, Cassie had fallen into sleep like a plummeting stone.

Elizabeth had sat in a tattered armchair and watched the girl for a long time. Sometime during the night, the rains had returned, pounding the hilly countryside in a futile attempt to cleanse the corruption that had fouled this sorry world. Elizabeth found herself mesmerized by Cassie's lovely face. In sleep, she was granted the angelic perfection that the tribulations and outrages of consciousness had denied her. Elizabeth wondered if there was enough rain in the heavens to wash away the tainted residue of Cassie Jasic's wretched existence.

In her own life, she had surrendered to temptation and had consequently been defiled...transmogrified into something that was not strictly human. In that form, she had killed and consorted with demons. Even so, she believed that her transgressions paled in comparison to those committed by the girl's parents.

Someday, when this present storm blew over, Elizabeth vowed that she would find the pair. Borrowing a page from Cynara's book, she would teach them a lesson in sexual degradation that would leave them as broken as their shattered daughter.

Finally, she had turned her gaze on the downpour, watching the rain accumulate in the potholes of the poorly lit gravel courtyard. Gradually, she drifted into a mesmerized doze...and began to dream.

Unlike the dreams that had plagued her incessantly over the last several months, tonight there were no oddly familiar strangers or puzzling backdrops of anarchy.

Tonight, there was only fire. She found herself standing, unscathed, at the center of a massive conflagration the scale of which was too colossal to contemplate. Elizabeth stood at the epicenter of destruction (or was it cleansing? She could not be certain.) Like the pivotal point on which the universe revolved. The flames raged and swirled until the very air around her seemed to ignite, and when it seemed inevitable that the earth would explode in one final frenetic burst, the heavens opened up to reveal...

She awoke before the revelation could be made...staring about, disoriented in the pearl grey light of early dawn. Outside the window, the rain continued to fall. She glanced out the window to find that there was something vaguely menacing about the motel courtyard. Try as she might, she could not identify the source of her disquiet, but instinct warned her that it was time to move west.

Stealing a quick glance over at Cassie, she saw that the girl was still lost in sleep, curled into a tight ball. Again, she was visited by the impression that this girl was bound to become inextricably linked to her own destiny. Elizabeth prayed that circumstances would not force her to renege on her vow to protect Cassandra Jasic.

Coffee seemed in order and perhaps breakfast for her charge. Elizabeth recalled seeing a sign advertising both posted in the reception office. The notion made her shuddered, but who could say how long it would be before they would find another diner in this isolated part of the state. Quickly rising from her chair near the window, Simpson retrieved her coat and stepped out into the downpour. The parking lot was deserted save for her mud-spattered Jag. The sight of the dirty Jag filled her with a vague sense of guilt and she promised to have the car cleaned at the first possible opportunity.

The Jag had been purchased during a year that Liz had spent in London. She had never fully understood what had compelled her to purchase the vehicle, though she had since come to love its power and elegant feline lines. Still, there could be little point in denying that her motives were rooted in her feeling toward Cynara. The black Jag had been the demon's signature vehicle. As if in refutation of the black implications, Elizabeth had been compelled to purchase a white Jag. The suggestion of antithesis had not been lost upon the immortal.

Thoughts of the dark lady always produced keen stirrings in Elizabeth's mind of late. Elizabeth tried to attribute this reaction to the profound impact the woman had played in her life, but there was a definite sense of self-deception about this trite rationale. Unprepared to confront the matter further, Elizabeth firmly pushed it from her thoughts.

At the door to the main office, Elizabeth paused and glanced back at her unit. The sense of disquiet returned, now stronger than ever. The source of her nebulous anxiety almost resolved itself in her mind then. Had there not been two vehicles parked in the lot when she and Cassie had first checked in? Elizabeth was certain there had been two.

' _So what, girl_?' Elizabeth demanded of herself. On top of everything else, paranoia was definitely something that she did not want to develop. Shaking her head in exasperation, Simpson pushed open the door and stepped into the office.

The inside was dark and utterly silent. As she stepped over the threshold, Elizabeth tensed, anxiety blaring in her skull like a clarion. The sense that something was terribly amiss was undeniable in the dark confines of the tiny office. The smell assailed her with a fury then...a high, eldritch smell of spoiled meat.

As panic welled up in her chest, Simpson groped for the light switch.

The harsh yellow glare revealed a portrait of sickening carnage. The blood-spattered walls evoked images of a poorly maintained slaughter house. Sinew, ligature and bone lay scattered across the floor in wet, bloody chunks. It was evident that something had torn the old man apart with the finesse of a wood chipper.

A harrowing scream rose from somewhere outside. Elizabeth cursed and burst through the front door, dislodging it from the hinges in a shower of wood and glass. There was no doubt that the shrill, frantic voice belonged to Cassie. Whatever had butchered Charliss had now found her.

"It's finally begun," Elizabeth thought as she sprinted through the muddy courtyard. This was incorrect of course. The actual process of retribution had commenced the moment she had plunged the dagger into Cynara's heart, purportedly killing the night queen.

Simpson paused in front of her unit, trying to ignore Cassie's desperate cries. Anger welled up in her core like hot bile. She closed her eyes for the briefest moment and when they opened, they now shone an iridescent orange.

Springing like a panther, she hurled herself through the large plate glass window, which exploded into a million jagged shards. She rolled on the frayed carpet and came to her feet near the foot of the bed where she had left Cassie only moments before.

There were five would-be assailants in the room. A quick, sweeping glance informed Elizabeth that none of the five were human...a fact affirmed by the flat, lifeless eyes that were fixed upon their quarry. She immediately deduced that these creatures were what Cynara had once referred to as the drones; plodding lower, tier demons who were often employed to assassinate traitors. They were methodical and unwavering in their single-mindedness...but no less deadly for that lack of imagination.

One held the struggling Cassandra captive near the back wall with the girl's wrists imprisoned in the vice of its grip. She regarded Elizabeth with a silent, terrified plea. Her assailant, like the other four, brandished a ceremonial dagger similar to the ones used in the turning ritual.

Cassie's captor held the girl loosely to one side, providing Simpson with enough of a target to risk a direct strike. Ignoring the other four, who had recovered from the shock of her spectacular entry and were now converging upon her, Elizabeth launched herself directly at the drone holding the girl. The force of her attack drove both herself and the attacker through the thin wall in a spray of fragmented paneling and thin drywall. Both landed heavily between the bed and ruined wall of the next unit.

The impact broke the demon's hold on Cassandra's wrist, allowing her to scramble under the bed as her well-honed instinct for survival asserted itself. She rolled over in time to see Elizabeth haul the much larger drone to its feet and literally drive its head through the panel and plaster wall. As it struggled to free itself, she ripped the dagger from its grip and drove the tip up and under its exposed ribcage in one stunningly fluid motion. Abruptly, the drone stopped struggling and slumped in a grotesque heap of quivering limbs.

Cassie gasped, staggered by the brutal proficiency with which Elizabeth had dispatched the first of the drones. Hers had been the unhesitating actions of a seasoned killer. The iridescent orange glow in Elizabeth's eyes bespoke of impending slaughter poised to be unleashed upon the remaining four.

The other drones witnessed the rapid immolation of their comrade with no discernable trace of emotion. Slowly...inexorably, they converged upon Elizabeth, each brandishing the dagger of transformation. Cassie crawled toward the front of the bed. Despite her horror and revulsion, the girl found herself intrigued by the drones. In the dull, light of dawn, they appeared to glow faintly, but their flesh seemed oddly insubstantial, as though they might be nothing more than holograms.

Elizabeth lithely glided forward and twisting her torso to achieve maximum leverage, compelled the moored bed to rip its bolts out of the floor with a tortured scream and spiral across the room. The ancient steel frame collided heavily with the nearest pair of drones. The blond immortal performed an elaborate gesticulation and her hands burst into argent flames. Reaching down, Elizabeth snapped up the heavy comforter, which abruptly became a sheet of writhing flames.

Ignoring the slashing blade, Elizabeth pounced on the nearest drone, enveloping it in the flaming comforter. Cassie screamed in panicked negation as Elizabeth reeled backwards, the ornamental dagger buried deep in her left side. Regaining her balance, Simpson drew the blade free of the bloodless wound with nothing more than a slight grimace to indicate that it had caused her undue pain.

While the pair of downed drones climbed to their feet, the other drone moved slowly forward, its face set in an insipid expression that was typical of its ilk. Elizabeth stood erect and utterly still as the pair moved to join the approaching assassin.

"Do something, Elizabeth!" Cassie implored, baffled by the woman's inactivity. Simpson did not respond, but the resolute set of her jaw informed Cassie that she had no intention of trying to evade the drones.

Inhaling sharply, Jasic watched in horror as the three slowly drew back their blades in unison. What transpired next would haunt Cassie for what remained of her mortal life. In literally the blink of an eye, Elizabeth vanished, though Cassie perceived that this initial impression was not quite accurate. The demon appeared to have melted like soft wax before an argent flame...one moment, a substantial entity, only to liquefy and flow the next.

The slow-witted drones gazed about in obvious confusion. In the next instant, Elizabeth reconstituted directly behind the three, her eyes blazing their disconcerting orange.

Seizing the heads of the outside drones, she crushed them against the skull of the inside assailant. The resounding crunch of bone caused Cassie's stomach to roll queasily as the three slumped to the floor in a tangle of limbs, their daggers bouncing harmlessly on the stained carpet.

Simpson waved her hands in an elaborate pattern, summoning the weapons to her outstretched hands. Methodically, she moved from one fallen attacker to the next, dispassionately driving a dagger into each of the three's inanimate hearts. Then she stood up and gazed down upon the fallen drones with an inscrutable expression that caused Cassandra to shudder. As the girl studied Elizabeth's face, she marveled at the spectacle of the orange glow gradually draining from the immortal's limpid eyes, gradually settling back to their beguiling shade of blue.

After a protracted moment, Elizabeth turned and extended her arms toward her ward. Cassie emerged from her concealment, with the tears of terror already drying on her lovely face. She hesitated for a brief moment and then ran to the taller woman.

"I'm sorry, Cassie...sorry that you had to see that," Elizabeth whispered apologetically. To her dismay, she found that the girl seemed more fascinated than repulsed by what she had just witness.

"You killed them all!" Cassie declared in wonder, pushing herself away from Elizabeth to have a better view of the detritus of the attack.

"Not really," Simpson explained, watching the girl closely. "Drones are not really alive...at least, not in the sense that you understand the concept. Drones would best be likened to a robot."

"Then why did you do that?" the girl asked almost truculently while pointing at the protruding daggers.

Elizabeth's smooth brow furrowed. "The drones were dispatched as a message...a rather vulgar indicator that my former masters have decided to settle accounts. This is my reply."

Cassie appeared bemused by that response, obviously not grasping Elizabeth's intention.

"Cassie, the drones could not kill me, but they could instill fear of what is to follow. This conveys my contempt in no uncertain terms."

The girl shuddered again and shifted her gaze away from the drones who even now appeared less substantial. "I saw one stab you."

"Just as you did, Cassie," Elizabeth reminded her gently. "There is pain, but no threat of permanent harm. Cassie, I warned you that there might be extreme danger in traveling with me. This was only the opening salvo. Now that the gauntlet has been thrown down, the efforts will become more brutal and overt. I vowed to protect you, but I simply cannot guarantee your safety."

Cassie pulled away from Elizabeth and regarded the woman with an expression that was both flinty and wary. "Do you want to send me away?"

Simpson shook her head emphatically. "Never! I want you to be perfectly aware of the danger and make your own informed decision."

"There is no choice!" Cassie insisted vehemently. "If I go back to the road, slipping back into madness is inevitable...with you, I have a chance."

This frantic declaration was fraught with earnest and unrestrained emotion to which Elizabeth could only smile and nod. "Then I guess we're a team. We've got to move, Cassie. They've killed Mr. Charliss and we don't want to be here when he's found. Our problems are great enough without adding a legal complication."

"What about them?" Cassie asked, inclining her head towards the drones.

"They'll be gone without a trace before anyone arrives."

The pair then gathered up their possessions and strode quickly to the car, pulling out of the muddy lot in a squeal of tires.

After they had put several miles between themselves and the dilapidated motel, Cassie broke the charged silence by asking, "Those things that you did back there were incredible...impossible...were you ever really human?"

Elizabeth stole a brief glance at the girl, who was regarding her in her unsettlingly intense way. "Cassandra, there was once a very beautiful woman named Cynara. She was very much like an exquisite black diamond, full of enough dark mystery to captivate the mind of a very impressionable young woman. I fell victim to that dark, erudite seduction and that led to my becoming what I am today. I was a gullible little girl, subject to the formative forces that can affect all of us. I can assure you that I was very much human and not very different from you as you are now."

Cassie's expression became doubtful. "You're so together...I've never met anyone who had their act so tight."

"I guess that's good," Elizabeth replied, with a genuine laugh.

"It sure is," Cassie agreed, smiling quizzically. "Still, how could you simply have melted and fought like a tornado?"

Elizabeth struggled for a way to convey the mechanics behind an act that defied every fundamental physical convention humans lived by. "It's complicated, Cassie...my body does not have the same precise restriction that yours does. As you saw, I am able to change forms instantly. I am capable of conjuring flames and changing forms if necessary, but that is a practice in which I no longer care to indulge."

Cassie nodded thoughtfully and shifted her gaze to stare out the side window, but after a moment, she asked, "Why are these...people so desperate to kill you?"

"For nearly twenty years, I was held in Cynara's thrall. I was her constant companion and firmly under her control. Then something came to pass that changed all of that and broke her hold over me. "She faltered briefly, a pained expression rippling across her lovely face. "She attempted to coerce me into killing my own son."

"You have a son?" Cassie blurted, immediately regretting her rather impetuous reaction.

"Yes, I do," Elizabeth replied, struggling to hold the threatening tears at bay.

"Is he...is he like you?"

Simpson shook her head and dabbed at the corner of her right eye with a long index finger. "He's very human and very sweet. Actually, I met him for the first time in five years just before heading west."

Cassie could not respond, finding the notion that such a creature could actually live a normal life and possess all of the trappings of normalcy, such as a family, almost incomprehensible. "Why did you leave...it sounds like you love him very much?"

"Immeasurably...which is exactly why I left him alone for so long. I'm afraid of reprisals for what I've done and I don't want my son to suffer for my stupidity."

"What exactly did you do?" the girl inquired softly, moved by Elizabeth's obvious fear for her son.

"I killed Cynara...or so her masters believe. To them, I am a rogue demon who must be destroyed. If having my son or his wife would help them accomplish that, they would not hesitate to take them."

Cassandra shivered. "How horrible," she remarked distantly, though she found the concept of real family difficult to image or empathize with. "You once told me that you were going to Washington."

"There's someone there that I have to find...someone who once tried to warn a very young, very foolish young girl that the thing that seemed so appealing was fraught with danger."

"You're talking about yourself...aren't you?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes, I was an impetuous little bitch. Still, this man – David was his name – tried to save me. When I stubbornly refused to listen, he still risked his life to save me. I have to find him...to make amends for all that he has suffered as a result of my rejection."

"How long ago did all of this happen?" Cassie murmured. With atypical curtness, Elizabeth replied, "I'm beginning to feel like a prisoner under interrogation."

"I'm sorry," Cassie said hurriedly and glance down at her folded hands. Simpson sighed and slowly pulled the Jag to the side of the road. The day was dull and the air mist-laden. "No, I'm the one who owes you an apology. You have every right to ask the questions you have. After all, we've thrown our fates together. When I was human, I craved stability above all else. Now, with my future so uncertain, I've discovered that I have retained some aspect of my old personality. Despite all of the power that I possess, I find that I'm still very frightened. Not necessarily for myself, but for the ones I love...and now, for you."

"I've made things more difficult, haven't I?" the girl inquired, her wistful tone hinted at her conviction that her life was a nuisance borne by others.

"No, if anything, you've instilled me with a renewed sense of purpose...another reason for survival." Elizabeth leaned over and hugged the girl and then held her out at arms length, vowing fiercely, "Your life is going to be entirely different from this day forth. Once I've found a way to defuse my enemies...or at least deter them, I'm going to give you the life you've been so cruelly denied."

A tiny, sardonic voice mocked her then. There was a familiar ring to that voice that chilled Elizabeth's unbeating heart. This was the voice of Cynara Saravic, telling her that her vow to Cassie was not all that dissimilar to the one the demon had made to a young woman named Elizabeth Simpson some twenty-five years earlier.

Chapter Thirteen

1

Wayman Carcavice was sitting in his customary position near the steps leading into his mission. As August was poised to turn on the hinge of time and become September, the Pacific Northwest had been plunged into steam bath conditions. The winds were uncharacteristically absent and the humid, stale air seemed to hang over the abandoned zone like a funeral shroud.

Wayman drew a clean handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and mopped his glistening brow. Glancing at his watch, he was dismayed to discover that it as only noon. The worst of the heat was yet to come, promising hours of sweltering misery.

Carcavice sighed and began to rock again, his thoughts preoccupied by a myriad of worries. Inside, he could hear the clamor of the street people – his people – indulged in a modest lunch of sandwiches and soup. It had been nearly two weeks since Macevey had disclosed plans for a police invasion of the abandoned zone. No such blessed event had come to pass and the abandoned zone continued to be the lawless hell it had always been.

In that time, three other derelicts had met with fiery, unspeakable deaths.

The old cynicism had begun to erode Wayman's newfound sense of optimism and he now suspected that Stu's shared secret was nothing more than wistful fancy. Wayman berated himself for what he perceived to be foolish naiveté on his part. No career-minded politician would sanction a re-occupation of the abandoned zone. The potential trouble when weighted against the apparent benefits made said action too unpredictable to warrant the risks. The non-criminal elements of the zone had been deemed non-persons and it was not politically expedient to become embroiled in a war on their behalf. That these zones were breeding grounds for every manner of social cancer imaginable was something that the politicians conveniently chose to ignore. Wayman shook his head and swore in disgust, wondering how the maker had allowed his world to get so thoroughly fucked up.

Despite the failure of the avowed police presence to materialize, a distinct change had crept over the abandoned zone. The atmosphere had become suffused with an expectant tension and Wayman correctly deduced that this could be because the gangs had somehow discovered that the state was about to re-impose its authority over their hard won turf.

These signs of tension had begun to manifest themselves in particularly nasty ways. The gangs had become agitated and thus less tolerant. Wayman had heard tales of vicious confrontations between rival gangs all throughout the various enclaves that divided the abandoned zone.

Carcavice glanced to his left, rising out of his seat as he saw a derelict shuffling along the broken street. He had also noticed that this man's demeanor had shifted slightly over the past several weeks.

The man traipsed over the baked concrete sidewalk, idly wiping beads of perspiration from his brow. He glanced along the street and saw Carcavice regarding him with an expression of open concern. The man raised his hand and mustered a weak smile which the black man returned before settling back into his chair.

The man turned into a vacant alleyway and shuffled into its shadowy depths, absently kicking aside mounds of wet, moldering garbage as he went. The alley abruptly terminated in a dead end and near this rear wall stood a stack of crates...remnants of another day when the area had once been prosperous. There, the man collapsed against the soft wood and slid slowly to the ground.

The last week had been hellish for this particular derelict. Driven to exhaustion by sleep deprivation, his body could no longer carry him away from the consuming plague of his own rampant thoughts.

Powerless to flee, he settled down to confront his nightmares (or were they dim recollections...he could not be certain).

The blond woman was omnipresent, her lovely face partially obscured by shadow. The finely crafted features were vaguely familiar, but he could not associate them with a name or specific recollection. He was certain that her expression was one of exigency and agitation. Beyond this familiar stranger there hovered another no less beautiful but infinitely more menacing figure. This particular image caused the man's skin to grow clammy with the cold sweat of terror.

The man was struck by a distinct impression that the blond was unaware of the other woman's looming presence. This notion only exacerbated his mounting terror. Above this pair there swirled a raging argent pyre through which the man could clearly discern a host of faces that he did not recognize. Some of the faces were twisted in hatred, while others beamed with admiration.

This nightmare was charged with the aura of apocalyptic drama...an indecipherable puzzle upon which hung the very fate of the world.

The derelict lowered his head into his sweaty palms, wondering why this particular nightmare beleaguered him the way it did. Trying to grapple with his own swirling lucidity, he man concluded that the question of his own lost identity might well be intertwined with this recurring nightmare.

Carefully, he conjured the shadow face and held it forth in the viewing chamber of his mind's eye. Inspecting it from every perspective, the derelict experienced a sharp stirring of memories. He was now convinced that these memories were remnants of another, distant time when he had been more than a derelict, exiled to this abandoned hell. The derelict struggled to vivify the portrait of the blond beauty, but found himself confronted by an insurmountable wall.

Cursing in frustration, he closed his red-rimmed eyes and soon slipped into a fitful doze.

Carcavice had traced the derelict's stumbling movements, dismayed by the changes that had overcome the man of late. The long-time resident of the zone had grown more unstable, more disconnected with each passing day. Wayman frowned. The man's personal decline seemed symbolic of the decline that was killing this city. ' _Or the entire country, for that matter_ ,' he thought to himself with a hint of despair.

Just this morning, the news had led off with the story of the massacre of nearly two hundred women in a remote part of Vermont. Apparently, the women were practitioners of the Wiccan form of witchcraft...the New Order of the Silver Goddess. While most of the women had been shot, an unfortunate few had been crucified and burned in the tradition of the Salem witch hunts.

Wayman shook his head, mortified by the scope of the atrocity. He tried to imagine what kind of person could perpetrate such a large scale act of horror and found that he could not.

On a smaller scale, though no less dramatic for its lack of body count, Colorado State Police had discovered the body of a small motel owner named Charliss. The old man had literally been torn to pieces in the lobby of his motel. While depressingly barbaric, this in itself was not necessarily perplexing. What was mystifying, however, was the fact that the twenty unit motel was completely vacant at the time. The last person to register had done so late the prior night. When state police had run a check on the registrant's name, they discovered that Elizabeth Simpson had been missing and presumed dead for over twenty-five years.

Carcavice frowned and shook his head in exasperation. The country had managed to weave a tapestry of chaos and there was evidence that tapestry was beginning to unravel one frayed thread at a time. He had elected to remain in this jungle in a futile attempt to slow that unraveling.

Glancing around while mounting dismay, Wayman could not help but think that he had squandered his entire life, laboring under the ridiculous delusion that he could actually make a difference. Fetching a deep sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. His only hope of personal validation lay in the hands of Stuart Macevey and it now seemed that the well-meaning detective would prove to be as big a disappointment as everything else in his life.

2

Like something furtive and malign, night had stolen over Seattle's abandoned zone. Brooding shadows fell upon the crumbling streets like stalking panthers and though the shadows provided cover for the defenseless, they also served the predator equally well.

Though guarded with as much secrecy as any government undertaking would allow, news of a possible return of police presence to the zone had gradually filtered to the streets. As Wayman Carcavice had so astutely observed, that news had not been well received by the gangs. The notion of surrendering their operating bases had made the various tongs and gangs surly indeed. Ambushes and vicious gang fights had become commonplace during the terrifying nights and morning would dawn to find a sprawl of bodies littering the abandoned zone gutters.

While, Wayman sat in grim solitude, contemplating the decay of American civilization, a group known as the Pyronators – the chief instigators of the recent savage chaos in the zone – was cruising slowly through the garbage strewn alleys. The black Fury glistened in the moonlight with the deadly luster of a sleek panther on the prowl.

Arturo Richeras, the group's nominal leader, sat behind the wheel, his intense eyes roving the darkness like twin spotlights. Arturo was the only one who seemed oblivious to the radical changes that had overcome him in the last few weeks.

Physically, the Columbian teenager was a pale facsimile of the swaggering, arrogant youth that he had once been. His black hair had thinned and lost its luster, while his skin had become drawn and even sallow. Yet, it was his eyes that reflected the most striking change. An intense and frightening malevolence poured forth from those eyes. Yet, if one could stand to peer into them for any length of time, they would quickly see that the boy appeared haunted as though the four princes of hell were on his tail.

Though he would rather die than acknowledge the fact, these nightmares had made sleep an insufferable proposition...one that the Columbian's gaunt body would not willingly accept. In his nightmares, Arturo would find himself trapped at the terminus of a dead end alley while a legion of ravenous zombies converged upon him. While their flesh had been ravaged by flames, their eyes gleamed with an awful belligerence. Just as the night terrors were about to fallen upon him, Arturo would come awake with a nerve-rending scream, his body bathed in cold perspiration. With every re-enactment, the creatures came a little closed before he clawed his way back to awareness.

Arturo feared that the day would come when he would be unable to grope his way out of the nightmare before the night terrors finally reached him. What would happen then? An atavistic instinct informed Richeras that he would never see the light of day again, but surely that was insane.

If Richeras was not cognizant of the radical alteration that was overcoming him, his comrades certainly were. The most noticeable change was the pervasive odor. Like a grim reaper attired in the cerements of the grave, Arturo Richeras had begun to reek of death.

To a one, each member of the Pyronators had contemplated simply vanishing into the night, but like innumerable others who had thrown their lot in with sadistic violence, they found themselves with nowhere else to go. They had become part of an evil process and like all black addictions, when it became apparent that they had become entrapped in something horribly destructive, it became equally evident that there was no way to extricate themselves.

"Turo," Domingo Chavas, a ferret-faced boy of sixteen, suddenly exclaimed, pointing vigorously through the passenger side window, "Isn't that the fucker you've been wanting to get, man?"

Richeras squinted into the darkness, finally catching a glimpse of the tall, pale derelict as he leaned against the loading bay of a cadaverous warehouse and his dark eyes widened in delight. Indeed, it was the derelict who never failed to raise the Columbian's ire. There was something about the way that this particular bum walked that especially aggravated Arturo. There was a certain aloof dignity to the man's movement that set him apart from all the other stumbling sacks of shit who polluted Turo's turf. The notion that this fucker might actually consider himself worthy of living infuriated Richeras.

He had long wanted to put this particular pale-ass to the torch, but the bastard seemed to possess an instinct for avoiding trouble that was uncanny. Yet here he was, out in the middle of Arturo turf like a deer caught in an open field during hunting season.

"What's wrong with him, man? He looks fucked up," Domingo observed excitedly, salivating at the thought of easy prey and an expeditious end to the night's stalking. Of the others, Domingo was the first to realize that their nocturnal adventures were akin to playing Russian roulette and someday they would inevitably draw the bullet. A quick kill here would forestall that possibility for another night.

Arturo stopped the car, but still the derelict did not respond. Instead, he continued to lean against the horizontal lip of the loading dock, oblivious to his proximity to a gruesome death. The pale-ass seemed totally disconnected as he stared into the darkness, his face screwed up in concentration.

Richeras frowned, loathe to miss a perfect opportunity, but knowing that there was bigger quarry to be had this night. "Fuck it. We'll punch his ticket another night. We've got bigger fish to fry at the old theater complex.

Domingo cast an uneasy glance at Santos, who frowned and shrugged his shoulders, neither caring for the malevolent edge in Arturo's voice. Santos leaned forward and spoke to Richeras in a low, calm voice that belied his growing disquiet, "Turo, listen man, Cholo's been wondering where we've been lately."

Turo grunted in disdain and stared obstinately forward. Santos misconstrued this silence as a willingness to listen and carried on, unmindful of the fact that Richeras was as tense as a coiled spring. "Cholo says that we're getting ready to kick those little slants back into their holes. He's expecting that we'll be there to do our share of kickin'."

"Fuck Cholo!" Arturo spat disdainfully, affecting a bravado that fooled no one...himself included. "From now on, the Pyronators are independent!"

"Turo, you're talking crazy, man," Santos warned reproachfully. As far as the Columbians were concerned, Cholo was the man in Seattle's abandoned zone. Turo whipped his head about and Santos recoiled slightly, not liking the lunatic gleam in the brother's intense eyes. Abruptly, Richeras slammed on the brakes, bringing the Fury to a jolting halt.

"You think I'm crazy, Man?" he intoned softly, the mad light glowing in his eyes while a demented grin twisted his thin lips. "Fuck Cholo!"

The Columbian brayed this at the top of his lungs, his voice breaking like a shrew in the confines of the hot car. The others regarded Turo in stunned silence, sensing that he was tottering on the brink of mindless rage. His wild tirade continued, "Cholo is shit from now on, so fuck 'im...and fuck the slants and the rest of this entire shit hole. We've got a new sponsor backing us up now...someone that even Cholo don't have the balls to cross."

Santos and Domingo exchanged glances, their express suggesting that Turo had just uttered an unpardonable blasphemy. The youth snarled and pushed open his door, leaving the others gaping after him in bewilderment. In a moment, the Fury's trunk sprang open with a petulant bang. "Come and see this shit!"

The rest of the Pyronators piled out, intrigued despite a collective sense of apprehension. They dutifully gathered around Turo and peered into the dimly lit trunk. The group exchanged puzzled glances and then turned those gazes on the older youth, whose face was lit by an expression of triumphant vindication. When he realized that they had no concept of what they were seeing, that expression of triumph congealed into one of consternation.

"You guys are ignorant, just like fucking Cholo and all the other fucking dummies in this hell hole." Reaching into the imposing darkness of the trunk, he withdrew a fist-sized silver and black metallic object. He brandished the object as thought it was a religious talisman and when he spoke, it was with tones of reverence. "This is a remote trigger incendiary device."

"Like a fuckin' bomb, you mean?" Domingo exclaimed, his voice resonating with awe.

"Not exactly," Turo corrected. "More like the best fucking lighter in the world."

Reaching into the darkness again, he produced another smaller black box that was adorned with several small switches and indicator lights. He flipped one of the arming switches and a red light blazed ominously into life on the incendiary device.

"A flip of this next switch and this thing goes off, creating a fire storm the likes of which you only see in the movies. Bang, motherfucker!" For emphasis, he spread his fingers in the shape of an expanding mushroom cloud. He handed the device to Santos, who inspected it with an air of reverence. "Where did you get this?"

Arturo offered the other youth an evasive grin. "From a new friend of mine. He said that there are more of these to be had and all the cash we want. All we need to do is keep doing what we've been doing."

Santos blinked, not quite believing that he was hearing what his ear insisted was true. Incredulous, he demanded, "You mean someone knows what we've been doing?"

Turo lashed the lanky Columbian youth with a sour glance. "He knew, man," he murmured quietly, clearly unsettled by the fact of his new benefactor's knowledge of their deadly activity." He doesn't matter how he knows. He gave us this shit and told me that what we are doing is...special. He said that some real heavy shit was going to come down here and we would play a major part in it...if we did him a few favors. That's just what we're gonna do."

While Richeras exalted over this particular twist of fortune, the other Pyronators each suffered a sense of sinking despair. From the moment they had incinerated the first derelict, each had known that their time was marked. The realization that their vile escapades were no longer completely secret brought this sense of impending doom into sharp focus.

Arturo deactivated the detonator and placed both devices back in the trunk. Then he motioned for the others to get back into the car. "The man told me that we've got to stop thinking like small time hoods. That's why we're heading to the old theater. Time to move to the big leagues."

3

Like the homeless and chronically abused everywhere, the less aggressive residents of the abandoned zone had developed an acute instinct for survival. ' _An ear to the wind and one to the ground_.' This had become a slogan for the wayward, allowing them to survive in the harshest of urban jungles.

Wayman Carcavice's hostel had long been an irritant for the gangs and tongs that controlled the ever expanding Seattle abandoned zone. Not only did they view his safe haven with contempt, but they despised Carcavice for interfering with their favorite relief for boredom...trashing the homeless and mentally ill.

Many of the homeless had quickly gleaned that the zone was suffused with an expectant tension of late. This had been illustrated by the intensified gang wars between the Columbians and the Vietnamese. This tension had been further exacerbated by the increasingly frequent ' _torching_ ' of the homeless. Now there were rumblings that the gangs were readying to drive the hostel and its occupants into extinction.

Contingency planning was something that the homeless grasped instinctively and when this rumor had begun to spread, many had started to search for alternate living arrangements. The old theater was a crumbling, inconspicuous building near the heart of the zone. Two things attracted the homeless to the theater; the building was unobtrusive and the roof still didn't leak.

By the time Arturo Richeras learned of its new function, there were at least thirty derelicts living within its crumbling walls.

Arturo swung the Fury into a garbage-cluttered lane less than a half a block east of the theater. A light drizzle had began to fall, creating impenetrable pools of shadow that served Arturo's purposes ideally.

Turo's eyes narrowed to speculative slits as he surveyed the deserted streets. Somewhere off in the distance, the staccato sounds of gunfire ripped the silent darkness. The Columbian reversed the Fury and allowed it to drift deeper into the shadowy recesses of the alley. An instant later, he vaulted out of the car and gestured for the others to gather around the open trunk, where he handed each an incendiary device. "There are three fucking doorways into this place; the main door, a side entrance and a service entrance. Drop each device near the hinge side of the door and flip the toggle switch up. Then haul your ass back here and wait for the fireworks. If you want to stay in one piece, don't fucking dawdle."

The others nodded their understanding and were gone. Turo smiled and settled against the hood of the vehicle to await their return. In minutes, they were back, sprinting along the deserted streets like the nocturnal predators they were. Turo placed the detonator on the dashboard and pulled the car forward until the nose protruded onto the sidewalk. Glancing around one final time, he depressed the detonator button.

The effect was immediate and cataclysmic. The heavy whoosh reverberated through the abandoned zone like rolling thunder as flames engulfed the entire building with a rapidity that was shocking to behold.

"Holy Jesus....fuck!" Domingo exclaimed exuberantly, shielding his eyes against the glare. Orange sheets of flame climbed the walls of the theater like clinging vines. Turo quickly recovered from his initial rush of stunned euphoria and threw the car into gear. The vehicle glided out into the street while a glacial calm descended over Richeras like a protective shroud.

Flicking his gaze to the rearview mirror, he witnessed a grim spectacle that caused his rigid penis to explode like one of the incendiary devices that he had just detonated. Six derelicts had scrambled into the street, flailing madly like blazing pinwheels. The screams were shrill and harrowing, easily heard above the bass roar of the inferno.

By the time the Fury had disappeared around a corner some seven blocks up, Arturo Richeras was howling with laughter.

4

The theater burned with the fury of dried kindling, spreading to a dozen equally decrepit surrounding structures. Naturally, The Seattle fire department was not dispatched to battle the blaze. Not a single ambulance was sent to provide succor to the dead and dying. In all, twenty-seven people were incinerated in the initial explosion, while six others would die of untreated burns over the next fourteen hours. The six derelicts who had escaped unscathed had simply vanished without ceremony, offering prayers of thanks for their reprieves. The only federal response to the disaster came in the form of a forestry services water bomber that had dropped several loads of water onto the blaze lest it leap into the civilized part of the city.

The next morning, Stu Macevey sat in the corner of the precinct lunch room, reading a sketchy account of what was tastelessly being dubbed the flop house fires. He rubbed absently at the hollow of his temple as he read, knowing that this may well have been averted if the bureaucratic machinery had turned a little faster. He had begun to despair that he would ever hear from Lawland or that anything could be done to protect the helpless and innocent from potential slaughter in the zone.

Stu sighed, knowing that he could not long remain part of an organization that could willingly turn a blind eye to the atrocities that were now occurring in the abandoned zone.

Just then a shadow fell across his face and he glanced up to find Joubert regarding him with a particularly sour expression that Macevey could not decipher.

"Sit down, Alain," Stu murmured, tipping his head toward an empty chair. "There's not much on the go and we've got time for a cup."

"I think I'll stand, actually," Joubert rasped in a tone that bordered on open hostility. Taken aback, Macevey glanced questioningly at his partner, who continued to scowl.

"Maybe you better tell me what's gotten under your skin," he demanded quietly.

"You just couldn't let it go, could you?"

Stuart shook his head, still not grasping the gist of his partner's apparent accusation. "Couldn't let what go, Alain?"

"The fucking zone! You couldn't just forget about Carcavice and the fucking zone!" Joubert growled, his complexion deepening to an angry shade of red.

"Just what the fuck are you talking about?" he reiterated, struggling to retain his own failing composure. Joubert waved the question off with a disdainful flourish. "How many good cops will die trying to re-establish some form of order in that god-forsaken shithole? Did you even take a moment to consider that while you were playing messiah to the bums and whack jobs that float in that worthless sewer?"

"Alain, you're way out of line." Stu remarked softly. Though he and Joubert had partnered for the better part of three years, Stuart had never particularly cared for the other man and his cavalier, self-serving approach to the job. Still, he had worked diligently to be a good partner. He suspected that the need for pretense could be effectively dispensed with after this ugly eruption.

"Macevey, you're the one that's so far fucking out of line that I can't even believe it. The year before the zone was created, twenty-nine officers were killed in that wasteland. In the years since, there had only been twelve fatalities in the entire city."

"No one ever said that his was supposed to be an easy or safe job. From day one, every cadet has that fact hammered into his or her head. The purpose of our job is to uphold the law. That means that the bad guys might well decide to kill one of us every now and then. If you wanted a safe job, you should have been a crossing guard...though even that has risks."

Joubert colored an angry plum shade of red, his hands clenching at his sides. "The zone is a collecting pond for scum and riff-raff despite what idealistic fools like yourself and Carcavice might think. Most of the denizens deserve to be slammed into a fucking cage and that's exactly what the zone is."

"Those people who died last night may not have been white-collar, suburbanite pillars of the community, but they still deserve a better death and some measure of protection."

"Fuck them all...I wouldn't give just one man or woman of this force for a hundred of those fuckers," Joubert hissed.

Macevey sighed. Technically, Joubert was being insubordinate, but Stuart realized that his view was shared by many of the rank and file. The people in the zone had no more value than a stray dog to the average citizen. How many laws had been passed with the intention of banishing the homeless from city streets across the nation? It was difficult for most of the members of the force to see past the prejudice to the intrinsic wrongness that the very concept of the abandoned zones represented.

Macevey made an effort to convey some of this to Joubert. "If it was just a matter of containing the zones, maybe we could ignore just how asinine the idea of leaving huge swathes of the city to rot really is. The fact is, containment is a dangerous delusion and you and I both know it. The scum who control the zone are predators and once they've consumed everything there, they will turn their attention outward. It's a basic maxim, pal...ravagers will never rest as long as there's something to ravage. They're ripping the guts out of this city block by block and we congratulate ourselves for the risk reduction that came with creating the zone. The abandoned zones are a black testimony to our callousness. We are as every bit responsible for the people who burnt down there as the animals who struck the match."

Joubert stubbornly glanced away and Macevey knew that his argument was falling on deaf ears. Stuart sighed internally and took another swallow of his now tepid coffee. "What we've done is wrong and we are obligated to rectify it...even if it's painfully expensive. "

Joubert snapped his head back to Macevey, his eyes blazing with a shocking degree of enmity, but beneath this, Stuart thought that he could discern a hint of fear. "I hope you're the one who has to tell the families. Try to explain the moral obligations to the widows and children, Stu."

Macevey simply shook his head and remained silent. Joubert cursed under his breath and then pivoted and stalked off. Stuart fetched another weary sigh and climbed heavily to his feet, cognizant of the weight of the many gazes that fell upon his back as he left the lunch room. He understood that any arbiter of an abandoned zone occupation would be a pariah here.

Just as he was about to exit the area, when a desk sergeant poked his head into the staff room, disrupting the weighted hush. "Hey lieutenant, there's a phone call for you from downtown."

Macevey nodded and followed the sergeant out into the bullpen. As he crossed through the crowded maze of desks, he was acutely aware of the reproachful stares that followed his every move. His campaign to return civil authority to the zone had obviously become common knowledge.

Macevey entered his office and closed the door behind him, blocking out the accusatory stares. Snapping up the receiver, he was surprised to hear Franklin Lawland's assured voice on the other end. "Lt. Macevey, I would imagine that you've been fully apprised of last night's tragic incident in the zone."

"Yes, it looks like the perps have decided to expand into the mass murder market," Macevey replied tightly, struggling to contain his mounting excitement.

Lawland grunted, "This could well be a dark blessing in reaper's cerements, Lt. Macevey. An emergency session of the city council was called for later today. Key members of the state legislature flew in to attend this meeting. Can you guess what they've come to discuss, Lt.?"

A rush of pure delight suffused his heart then, though he tried to keep his voice neutral, "I would hope the situation in the abandoned zone."

"Correct. More precisely, they've come to discuss your proposal to re-establish legal jurisdiction over the zone. When I first approached several councilors last week, they were skeptical and leery. They regarded the zone as something dirty that served a distasteful but necessary purpose and was best not tampered with. The recent rash of killings and the escalating gang warfare helped soften that resistance. Last night's massacre effaced it completely."

"So you're saying that the proposal will pass?"

"Franklin offered a paper thin chuckle. "Oh yes, it will pass. The Macevey-Lawland rescinding bill is now on the way to becoming an unprecedented piece of legislature...the first of its kind in the country. I hope that you don't object to the placement of my name next to yours. A little grandstanding can't hurt a promising career."

Macevey laughed dutifully, but suspected that career advancement was as much a motivating factor as the notion of moral obligation in Lawland's support for the measure. Still, in this case, the ends far superseded the motivations, self-serving or otherwise.

"When?" The question leapt to Macevey's lips of its own accord. He felt an eagerness that he could not ignore, though he was surprised to discover that this eagerness was not rooted in keen anticipation, but rather in sheer desperation. Some nebulous instinct admonished him that something terrible and irreversible was about to befall the Seattle abandoned zone...something that would make the burning of the derelicts seems like a petty act of malevolence by comparison.

"Within a week," Lawland declared confidently.

"A week? There could be another dozen incidents by that time," Stuart groaned.

"That would be lamentable, but a week is the best we can achieve. Even that may not be sufficient time to prepare properly. It is imperative that the assualt appear well organized and be executed in a relatively bloodless manner. What we are about to undertake will erase the biggest social blunder of the twenty-first century. It is our hope that the reoccupation will have a domino effect throughout the coutry. It would be an even greater tragedy if that prospect was thwarted because our effort was badly handled."

Stuart reluctantly agreed. If the move turned out to be a debacle, it was highly unlikely that it would be repeated elsewhere. After a moments silence, Lawland asked, "How do you expect the gangs to react to the invasion?"

' _Invasion? What an odd choice of words_ ,' Macevey thought. "Well, they certainly won't greet our return with open arms and waving flags. They've been able to operate within and from the abandoned zone for years with impunity. This will certainly curtail their efforts and their response is fairly predictable. Open resistance is not beyond the realm of possibility. We may encounter fully automatic weapons, mines and even hand held missile launchers."

"Yes, that just about summarizes what we've been expecting from this end as well. That is why we're going to co-ordinate our efforts with the National Guard. They will provide us with air cover in the form of attack helicopters and medical evac units. On the ground, we will be backed by infantry and light amour units."

For an extended moment, Macevey was simply too stunned to respond. "You really are talking about an actual invasion."

"Yes," Lawland confirmed quietly. "When America traded pieces of the inner cities for a false sense of security, I really don't think they fully considered the ramifications of that action. What we effectively did was create a series of pirate states, abandoning sections of our cities to groups that we lacked the will to confront. Inevitably, the day would come when we would be forced to take them back. That day is now."

"This will not be seen as a popular course of action. My own partner raked me over the coals for my part in the plan. I get the distinct impression that just about everyone in the precinct knows that something big is about to go down in the city. I'm as welcomed here as a weasel in a hen house."

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line, during which Stuart could sense the commander's consternation. "That presents a particularly delicate problem."

"I'm sure it does," Macevey agreed in a somber tone, "because if the average street cop knows, then you can be sure that the gangs know. That takes away the element of surprise and that spells trouble."

"Now you see the need for careful planning," Lawland pointed out dryly. "At any rate, I want you to come down town and sit in on the operational planning sessions. Oh, by the way, you'll be referred to as Captain Macevey from now on. When this is over, we're going to need a captain to take command of the difficult precinct in the zone. Think of it as being your great reward for being a man of compassion."

"Aren't I the lucky one?" Macevey remarked with a crooked grin before saying his goodbyes and ringing off. ' _One week_ ,' he thought and offered a fervent prayer that last night's killings would sate a murderous appetite for another week or so.

5

Flames...those ubiquitous walls of fire were burning brightly in a dozen hues. Elizabeth could feel the intensity of the heat against her flesh and though she was impervious to its consuming kiss, she knew that there would be others nearby who were not so fortunate.

Above the crackle and hiss of the roaring inferno, she could discern the charge of running feet and the intoxicated cry of the hunters on the verge of cornering their quarry. Judging the direction as best she could, Elizabeth set off into the forest of fire, unmindful of the tendrils of flame that found purchase on her clothing. Glancing up, she saw a billion stars gazing down upon her...huge and pregnant with a knowing malevolence.

Abruptly, the writhing wall parted like the curtains of a grand stage, revealing five figures who were gathered around a single sprawled form. Elizabeth attempted to venture closer, attempted to intervene on the solitary figure's behalf for it was clear that the intentions of the other were hostile and violent...perhaps even lethal. To her consternation, she found that some invisible force restrained her...reducing her to the role of helpless spectator. It then dawned on her that she had been intended as a witness of what was to follow and nothing more.

On of the five stepped forward and delivered a savage kick to the fallen figure's exposed abdomen, eliciting a piteous cry of pain from the victim. Another darted forth and poured the entire contents of a plastic jerry can over the writhing figure. The pungent odor of gasoline reached Elizabeth's flaring nostrils and she began to thrash against her restraints. Shocked, she gazed down to discover that chains of argent flame had ensnared her ankles and wrists.

Reduced to the role of powerless witness, Simpson began to scream. One of the figures turned to face Elizabeth and she immediately gleaned that he was the instigator of this barbaric madness. Though the details of his face were lost in the pooling shadows, his eyes burned a vile, malignant red, touching her flesh with a repulsive and palpable weight.

With slow deliberation, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a lighter. Elizabeth saw that the ornate lighter was encrusted with the same jewels that adorned her consecrated dagger of turning. Flipping back the cover of the lighter, the figure rolled the pad of his thumb over the igniter wheel and a flame of improbable brilliance leapt into life.

Elizabeth's angelic features contorted in an expression of utter horror that only provoked a sardonic grin in response. After a brief hesitation, he tossed the lighter in the direction of the gas-soaked figure. In the warped time reality of the nightmare, the lighter flipped end over end with a maddening indolence. As it flew, the lighter cast an impossibly large sphere of light over the surroundings.

Sensing the imminence of his death, the victim lifted his head and stared at approaching death with grim resignation. In the brief moment of illumination, Elizabeth recognized the victim and began to scream.

6

Cassie snapped awake in a panic, thinking that Salt Lake City had been struck by an earthquake. The room in which she slept was shaking violently. Sitting up in wild-eyed terror, Cassie glanced over to the bed where Elizabeth rested. The air surrounding the immortal glowed with eerie blue effulgence. The woman, herself, lay shaking on the bed as though caught in the throes of a violent seizure. Her fists were clenched at her sides and her face was contorted in a rictus of agony...or perhaps, terror. The girl could not be certain, but the presence of either emotion in the normally unflappable Simpson only served to augment the girl's own panic.

Slipping from her bed, the girl tentatively approached the immortal, uncertain as to what she should do or if her own life might somehow be in danger.

Abruptly, Elizabeth sat bolt upright. Startled, Cassie cried out and stumbled backwards. The older woman gazed around in the darkness, her exquisite eyes blazing that ominous shade of iridescent orange that the girl had come to associate with towering rage.

Falling to her knees, she scrambled around the end of the bed and watched Elizabeth, gauging the distance to the door as she did. Elizabeth sat in the darkness of the hotel suite, breathing in great shuddering gasps. Gradually, the ominous orange light ebbed from her eyes.

"David?" she inquired of the shadows and then the present reality imposed itself upon the horror of her nightmare.

Shivering, she drew a ragged breath and climbed out of bed, standing on unsteady legs.

"Elizabeth?" a tremulous voice inquired from somewhere within the room. The recollection of her fragile companion came back to her then and Simpson experienced a moment of profound guilt. There was a distinct note of fear in the girl's voice...one that she vowed never to provoke. Like many such vows, this one had fallen quickly by the wayside.

"It's okay, Cassie...I had a nightmare, I think," she remarked softly.

"You had a nightmare?" the girl echoed incredulously, emerging from her hiding spot on the opposite side of her bed. She detected a hint of amusement in the girl's voice and reconsidered her assessment of the girl's apparent fragility.

"You frightened me...you were surrounded by a weird blue light and your entire body was shaking violently. So was the entire room, for that matter."

Elizabeth absorbed the observation thoughtfully and then explained, "The senses of a demonic entity...or an immortal, as I prefer to think of myself...are preternatural in their sharpness. What's more, the emotions of my kind are amplified geometrically and thus gain a tangible power that is very real...very physical. Think of it in terms of the way gasoline can be turned to raw energy."

Cassie nodded, though Elizabeth could see that the girl had no real concept of what she was attempting to convey. How could a human being possibly grasp what it was like to live every second an acuity and perception immeasurably greater than their own? Without the protective warding of the immortal consciousness, a mortal would be reduced to raving madness after a moment's exposure to a demon's cognizance.

"So, go back to sleep, Cassie," Elizabeth advised finally. "Beginning tomorrow, we're going to travel longer and with a little more urgency."

The girl nodded, but her gaze lingered on Elizabeth's face for a moment longer. "The nightmare...it was about the man you're searching for, wasn't it?"

Simpson regarded the girl flatly, again surprised by her perceptive abilities. "Yes. I've always believed that David didn't die at the hands of Cynara. Her natural instinct for cruelty would have demanded a more protracted form of torment. Still, I've never actually gained any sense that he might still be alive. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Cassie frowned and nodded. "You knew in your mind, but never actually felt it in your heart."

"Precisely! David was spectral at best and though I wanted desperately for him to be alive, my gut instinct leaned toward believing he was dead. Tonight's dream was excruciatingly vivid and though it is hardly incontrovertible proof, I now have renewed hope that I'll find him."

"Yet, you were angry...and frightened," Cassie observed.

Simpson's brow furrowed. "He's in danger...at least, that's what I'm hoping...praying that what I've seen is not something in the past tense. It is not inconceivable that those who wish to harm me know exactly where David is. If that's the case, they will likely use David as leverage to get to me."

"But you have no idea where David is," Cassie pointed out, suffused by a sudden rush of empathy for her companion. Elizabeth turned her lovely face to the girl and smiled. "You're right, Cassie...but there is someone who does.

***************************************************

Elizabeth laid in the darkness, listening absently to the murmur or Cassandra's even breathing.

' _You're peering along a dark path, fraught with terrible pitfalls_ ,' a tiny voice admonished her and that was inarguably true. Yet, despite the extreme danger of what she was now contemplating, the prospect was too attractive to ignore. It echoed in her mind like a low grade itch that would give her now peace.

' _Cynara knows and she will tell you_.'

Perhaps, but at what price? The dark irony of her situation caused her to utter a humorless chuckle as she stared into the darkness. Her enemies were mobilizing against her in retribution for a crime that was, strictly speaking, an illusion.

In Chevru, the vessel that held Cynara had perished, but the actual demon had survived, just as the Elizabeth Simpson had survived the turning a quarter century before.

The nature of her conundrum caused Simpson to groan softly. She did not want to rouse Cassie, but she was unable to fully contain the bewilderment that her dilemma evoked.

If she was to delve deep inside of herself and seek out that core where the dark lady was now imprisoned, would she ever be able to fully contain Cynara again? By walling Cynara off in the deepest chamber of her sub consciousness, Elizabeth had managed to hold the dark lady at bay. Yet, if she chose to violate that wall, what influence would Cynara exert over her then? Despite everything that Saravic had taken from her, Elizabeth could not deny that there still existed an incomprehensible bond between the pair...attenuated by time and betrayal perhaps, but still there nonetheless.

The mere fact of this lingering fascination filled Elizabeth with an elemental dread.

Yet, should she elect to eschew Cynara's possible aid in determining what might have befallen David, what alternative was she left with? Her search for David Stillman was doomed to failure without the dark lady's guidance. She could spend years blundering about for David's trail and be rewarded with nothing other than frustration and despair. Worse still, if David was dead, she could spend an eternity chasing a ghost.

Her situation was dire, made more so as time had become her enemy. Forces were converging upon her, intent on pulverizing the foundation of her life and that reality added an aura of desperation to her search as did the still-vivid nightmare.

Suddenly, unexpectedly Elizabeth Simpson began to weep. Bitter, silent tears slid over the beguiling ridges of her cheekbones like hot oil. She wept for everything that she had lost...her son, her lover and her very life. The tears flowed like the purging of a poison and the cold, dark gifts that she had been granted by way of compensation made her losses more bitter still.

The tears fell for what seemed like hours and with the last of them went her reservations. When dawn's pale light filtered through the suite's windows, it fell upon an Elizabeth Simpson empowered with a new resolve.

Chapter Fourteen

1

"So where are we going, anyway?" Cassie asked over the purr of the Jag's engine. Elizabeth's eyes never left the road as she pushed the car up into the high nineties, deftly handling the twisting northern California road. The girl glanced at the rush of trees through the passenger side window, exalting in the visceral thrill of testing the limits. Proximity to Elizabeth instilled her with a feeling of invulnerability.

Elizabeth pursed her lips and responded without taking her eyes from the road. "A small town in Washington...the place where I was born and lived my entire human life. It's the place where I last saw the man I'm looking for and it seems like a logical place to begin my search. I hope to be there by tomorrow morning...or afternoon at the latest."

Cassie nodded and smiled, surprised by the degree of contentment she felt in the other woman's presence despite her alien nature. It occurred to her that this was the first time she had ever relished another's company. Her personal demon still haunted her like a dark shadow, but now she was fully aware of its malefic presence and was optimistic that she could find the means to master it. Of its own volition, a dark possibility took shape in her mind.

Elizabeth discerned the sudden change in Cassandra's mood and glanced inquiringly at the girl. "What's the matter, Cassie?"

Cassie gazed down at her hands which were clenched tightly in her lap. "If you...you find this David...what will happen to me?"

Not taking her eyes from the road, Elizabeth reached out and clasped Cassie's hand, discerning the girl's fear of another abandonment. "Cassie, you and I are sisters. Nothing is going to change that. I vowed to help you and I have no intention of reneging on that promise. If I do manage to find David, that will have no effect on my keeping of that promise. What's more, should someone try to harm you or come between us by force..."

Elizabeth allowed the thought to remain unspoken, though the implication hung clearly between the pair like the crack of a whip. Cassie considered what type of creature would dare to cross Elizabeth and shivered violently.

They drove under a weighty silence for the next hour and finally Elizabeth asked, "How about finding us a good radio station?"

The girl nodded, still solemn, and reached for the tuner dial. Even before the selector fixed on a signal, Elizabeth was assailed by a premonition of something unutterably terrible.

"State and Federal authorities are still attempting to determine a possible motive in the gruesome mass murder of nearly one hundred and sixty female members of the New Order of the Silver Goddess Wiccan religious order. Along with the women, two members of the Boston City Police Department were found burned to death outside the isolated compound. The FBI has ruled out the possibility of mass suicide, although they have confirmed that the order was under investigation in the fire bombing of a Revisionist Church in Lewiston, Maine as well at the brutal slaying of a local talk show host, Kramer Halston."

Cassie glanced at Elizabeth, about to resume her search, but came to an abrupt halt. The other woman's jaw had tightened and her face seemed frozen in shock as though on the verge of apoplexy. Shaking, Elizabeth steered the Jag to the side of the highway and sat listening intently as the announcer divulged the details of the Vermont massacre.

"Amongst the dead are some of the most prominent and influential women in the North-eastern United States. Doctor Zavora Asari – the orders founder – was not among the victims and has still not been located. Though the authorities have not yet said as much, there is some speculation that this horrific attack could be an act of retribution over the Revisionist Church bombing."

Elizabeth reached forward and snapped the radio off and then sat back in her seat, staring bleakly at the length of gray asphalt stretching out before her.

"Elizabeth, what's wrong? Do you know some of these women?" Cassie inquired nervously.

Elizabeth glanced over at her new found ward, eyes glistening with raw anguish. "Yes and I may be inadvertently responsible for what's happened to them."

"I don't understand."

"The woman...Doctor Asari, is a Wiccan...a witch. Somehow, she came to embrace the notion that I was an emissary of her religion's Goddess."

Cassie grimaced, her tone reflecting her incredulity. "They actually believed that you're some kind of Goddess. I mean, your power might certainly give someone that notion, but still..."

Elizabeth nodded. "The people who wish me dead are powerful manipulators. Though I have no clear idea why, I'm certain that they are responsible for inculcating that idea in Zavora Asari's mind. It's terribly confusing and I don't have all the answers."

The girl frowned, "but you said you may have been responsible for this attack?"

"Indirectly, I am. Before I came west, I paid a visit to Doctor Asari in a Boston hospital. She had been assaulted by a religious fanatic on a local talk show, though not before delivering a plea to the emissary of the Goddess that her order worships. Can you guess who that emissary was?"

"You?" Cassie deduced correctly.

"Exactly!" Elizabeth confirmed. "In my preoccupation with finding David and visiting my son, I never fully considered the ramifications...the complexity of what my enemies were attempting to achieve by convincing the Wiccan order that I was some manner of mystic messenger. Quite frankly, I still have no clear notion of what their intention might be. At any rate, another group of fanatics drew the conclusion that I was the embodiment of all evil. They then singled out the Wiccan order as my disciples and vowed to destroy them."

"That's crazy," Cassie remarked with a shiver, clearly disturbed by the complex scenario.

"It's that and more," Simpson agreed. "I dismissed the second group as nothing more than a collection of zealous gasbags who were simply venting steam to garner attention. I advised Zavora to simply lay low until they found some other group to persecute. If she heeded my advice, it cost the lives of nearly two hundred women."

Ashen-faced, Cassie stared down at her hands which were still primly folded in her lap.

"As you can see...immortal or not, I'm hardly infallible," Elizabeth concluded with a bitter laugh. "I'm flying blind, Cassandra, and I may be well out of my depths. My enemies are ancient and they are well versed and adept in the game of subterfuge. I'm arrogant to think that I can play this game and survive...or not cause everything I hold sacred to be destroyed in the process."

"Do you think this other group will come after you?" Cassie asked softly, just now realizing how perilous her situation really was.

"I think they might...if they are able to find us. Quite frankly, I'm not really concerned that they pose any kind of personal threat. I suspect that the Wiccans and the other group are intended as more of a distraction. Still, my self-absorbed, cavalier dismissal may have caused a lot of innocent women to lose their lives...not an easy burden to bear."

The two women fell into an uneasy silence. Cassie sat in the passenger seat, feeling miserable and incondign to the task of consoling a grief that she, herself, could scarcely imagine.

Elizabeth pushed the car up to highway speed, trying to banish the image of Zavora Asari's reverent face as she gazed up from her hospital bed at the woman she believed to be her Messiah. "I pray that she's survived," Elizabeth murmured. "I also pray that she has the good sense to let the hatred and craving for revenge go."

Again, the girl offered no response for it seemed that the remarked had not been intended for her. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the northern horizon, suddenly consumed by a keen sense of fatalism. In an argent flash of revelation, Cassandra Jasic understood that her own fate had become inextricably linked to the enigmatic creature sitting next to her.

2

The national reaction to the Vermont massacre was generally one of outrage and revulsion, though there were those (and more than a few in number) who believed that some manner of perverse justice had been served. Within twenty four hours of the first news of the attack, more than a dozen bookshops specializing in occult literature and paraphernalia were firebombed in the New England area. To add to the escalating chaos and rancor, dozens of Wiccan practitioners picketed a Revisionist church in the Boston suburbs and were quickly and violently confronted by Ingram's parishioners. The resulting melee left nearly two dozen people seriously injured.

Federal investigators found no evidence to link the massacre to the Revisionist Church of its combative leader. A low key APB was issued for Zavora Asari, though the investigating agents harbored the belief that the order's leader may have been abducted for the amusement of her assailants.

It was likely that the Revisionist Church would have escaped notice entirely had Gregor Ingram not taken to the public airwaves and delivered an inflammatory call to arms that firmly focused his organization in federal crosshairs.

3

In years distant, it had been possible for an individual to remain blissfully ignorant of the ebb and flow of the world around them. Stock horror was filtered through the printed media and later, through editorial news clips on nightly news broadcasts; incomprehensible human misery condensed into palatable thirty second segments between commercials. Yet, as the world moved into the late twentieth century and beyond, that delusional luxury was stripped away by the proliferation of information technology. The blatant ugliness of the human condition was ripped open and laid bare on laptops and hand held communication devices the world over. When the media moguls realized that the masses harbored an insatiable appetite for darkness and suffering, it followed that every act of brutal and vapid violence was replayed through the various media channels until primal brutality became deeply inculcated in the American psyche as an inevitable (if not acceptable) aspect of human life.

The gruesome images from the Wiccan retreat in Vermont quickly became fodder for a media frenzy. On the internet and television stations around the country, cameras panned slowly over shroud-draped corpses of the women who had been arranged before the main compound building, while in the background, solemn-voiced reporters read a doleful roll call of some of the more prominent victims.

In the private office of his Atlanta studio of the Revisionist Church's world wide ministry, Gregor Ingram sat before a bank of television monitors, mesmerized by the images of death that he had engineered. It had been God's will that he succeed in extirpating the followers of this golden harlot. The poignant recollection of the previous night's great victory evoked a grin from the minister and then he admonished himself against hubris...it was only the beginning, after all, though certainly an emphatic one.

At last, he had taken the first step down the great and glorious path of the holy war and he was delighted to discover that this step had been a resolute and unequivocal triumph.

There was much to do, but Gregor could sense that the Lord had suffused him with boundless energy required to confront every dark challenge. Somewhere out there still remained the emissary harlot and the burden of finding her had fallen to him. He vowed that he would see her vile body paraded in the places of power so that all of America would know that iniquity would no longer be tolerated upon its soil.

Then the great cleansing would begin!

Gregor closed his eyes and conjured images of the great burning to come. The ubiquitous flames were white and the resounding screams of the wanton and unrepentant filled the world like divine thunder. Gregor's expression became euphoric and in his mind, he saw the legions of the righteous emerging unscathed from the flames...galvanized by faith. Naturally, he would be the one to lead this great procession.

A sharp rapping at the door broke his reverie, bringing Ingram to his feet in an agitated lurch.

"Come!" he snapped irritably, straightening his tie and smoothing down his collar. Ingram didn't recognize the man who entered his office, though this caused him no particular anxiety. There had been defections, just as he had anticipated there would be when he had first embarked upon this long road. Many of the fair weather Christians had run when they discovered that they would have to take up the cross and fight. Again, this was to be expected and he knew there would be a special place in hell for this craven ilk.

The visitor regarded Ingram with eyes that glistened like bits of obsidian. Gregor briefly wondered if anything could possibly live behind such eyes, but found that it scarcely mattered. This man (and the others like him who had suddenly flooded the order) was fanatically devoted and thus questions concerning his spiritual substance were moot.

"Emon Drury is gone," the man informed Ingram tightly, his voice, like his eyes, remained inscrutable. "His personal office has been cleaned out. I took the liberty to check his bank accounts...they too are likewise empty."

"I see," Ingram remarked and offered no further reaction. He had expected as much. The crafty Irishman was a consummate planner, but he had no stomach for the darker side of the Lord's work. With Drury's departure the entire inner circle had deserted the revisionist leader, yet he found himself indifferent to their abandonment. He had moved so far above and beyond their council that they could only be a hindrance now.

"It's nearly time for the broadcast," the man reminded Ingram who gave a small start. In a scant matter of seconds he had forgotten that the aide was even present. Gregor experienced a brief shudder of disquiet and then frowned as though some invisible presence had drawn an icy finger along the length of his spine. Then the enormity of his destiny reasserted itself and his misgivings evaporated.

Springing lithely to his feet, he bound past his aid and clapped the younger man on the back, "We're about to start a war, my man."

4

The woman laid on her narrow bed, with a down-filled comforter pulled up around her chin as though it was protective amour. She had remained in this exact position for the past twelve hours, staring fixedly at the television in anticipation of the communication she knew must inevitably come.

Since time out of mind, Christians had been unable to resist the opportunity to gloat over their atrocities and she had little doubt that Gregor Ingram would prove any different. To her mind, Christianity was the religion most prone to public displays of cruelty.

She would simply bide her time until he appeared as she knew he must. Seeing his smug face and hearing the contemptuous ring of disdain in his voice, these things would fortify her against the terror that waited along her intended path.

In instant later, the visage of her hated enemy filled the screen. She sat up abruptly, ignoring the protests of her stiff muscles, and raised the volume until his voice filled the room like titanic thunder.

5

Gregor Ingram stepped to the podium and adjusted his meticulously arranged tie. A glacial calm had descended upon the revisionist minister, rooting him in his increasingly agitated sea of madness. When he began to speak, his voice was firm and composed.

"What dark days these must be for the reprobate...for the miscreant...for the incorrigible sinner? How they must quake and tremble at the prospect of his imminent retribution. This world has wallowed in stench and filth, but the time of purification is upon us."

"One need only look to our newspapers on this great and glorious morning to recognize the truth of this. Less than two weeks ago, I stood before you and held forth the face of the enemy and already, God has seen fit to pass judgment upon them. He has banished them back to the vile dust from which they sprang!"

"Let his name be praised."

"As emphatic a sign as this is, it is only beginning. There is a war to be waged and I now call on each and every one of his children...from the eldest to the infant...to come forth and help me do battle in his name. If a person does not heed his word...then that person must be laid low. If false prophets and their followers disparage his name, they must be ground down and scattered to the wind like chafe!"

"If an institution attempts to stand between God and his will, that institution must be laid low."

"As witnessed by last night's dramatic events, he will no longer tolerate false Gods and their prophets...and neither shall we."

"I can tell you that our road will be fraught with treachery and peril. The agents of the serpent are all around us and though they cower in the face of his divine power, their desperation will drive them to extreme actions. We must meet their challenge without fear and mete out the Lord's justice without remorse."

Ingram set his written notes aside and glared directly into the camera, his eyes cold and mirthless. "Today, agents of the government came to me and dared insinuate that it was our church that engineered the acts of retribution in Vermont. Through fabrication and distortion, they tried to show that the punishment of the witches was the act of man...that they were shot. I am here to assure all good Christians that this is bald-faced prevarication. The wantons of Satan were reduced to dust by his Holy fire and though their emissary lives still, I vow that she will be found and exiled back to the Hell from whence she came."

"Now, you might ask, "Brother Ingram, why would the government seek to persecute us?" Of all institutions, the government is perhaps the greatest purveyor of Satan's dogma. They have endorsed every manner of perversity and depravity imaginable. They have eagerly embraced dark cultures and religions, while ignoring the Christian doctrine that formed the foundation upon which this country was built. For too long, our spiritually bankrupt leaders have turned a blind eye to the moral turpitude that eats at this nation's soul like a virulent cancer."

"From this day forth, I propose that the children of this church, and all true churches of Christ, simply revoke the government's authority. If you witness something abominable, do not simply stand meekly by and suffer its existence...rise up and strike it down! Should the government pass false laws to shelter the evildoer, we will raise our crosses against them as well!"

"I am asking our brethren to gaze about our towns and cities as though through his eyes. Should your gaze fall upon the depraved, the wanton or the infidel, take up your cross and strike them a blow in the name of the new America!"

"We have cowered in muted silence for too long. I want the children of the revisionist dream to serve notice to the miscreant that we will sit idly by not a moment further." After a moments dramatic pause, he concluded, "May God steady your hands and your hearts."

With this, Ingram offered his audience a slight and oddly dignified bow. Then he strode from the stage, leaving the congregation and millions of viewers staring after him in stunned silence. This silence prevailed for several moments and then a single individual in the massive hall began to applaud enthusiastically. Soon, others joined in until the entire hall reverberated with zealous thunder.

The applause continued to well until it seemed that a million other voices had clapping hands had joined the congregation.

War had been declared.

6

Zavora Asari sat up in her bed and brusquely threw the comforter aside. Her incisive grey eyes were locked on the television screen, though the electronic image of her avowed enemy had dissolved several seconds before. In the small fragment of her mind that had not been distorted by hatred, Asari understood that Ingram's statement was tantamount to open sedition.

This insight failed to move Asari. The system, with all of its trappings and structural regulations, was part of an old reality that had died to moment that Gregor Ingram had strode into the Vermont killing ground like a triumphant conqueror. On that night, the civilized, erudite Asari had died as surely and finally as the unfortunate women who had been slaughtered.

Now, only the Goddess' retribution mattered. Asari rose and padded into the bathroom. She studied her face in the mirror, searching for some hint of weakness or doubt. In the steely grey depths of her lovely eyes, Zavora could detect neither hesitation nor inadequacy. The memory of burning and persecution had been embossed in her mind. She had been thrust into the fires of age-old violence and had emerged as a finely-honed instrument of vengeance. All that remained was the final tempering...a process that would require every ounce of her conviction and courage. Thus, Asari knew that she had to see the face just one final time and glimpse the essence of a man so consumed by enmity that he could see the Vermont slaughter as a Holy undertaking.

Gregor Ingram's face had revealed all of that and more. Here was a man bent upon the destruction of everything that Asari held sacred. The emissary seemed unwilling or unable to take up the mantle of protector and so that role would inevitably fall to her. Shrugging off her ambivalence, Zavora prepared to don the regalia of the death angel.

In the prevailing chaos and terror that had accompanied the bloody assault on the Wiccan complex, a badly shaken Asari had been led into the dense Vermont forest. In her state of hysteria and frantic disbelief, Zavora had not even been sure where she was being led. The shrieks of the dying still resonated in her frazzled mind.

As she fled, Zavora had passed into the realm of madness, and though she had come part way back, Asari had been transmogrified into a creature of pure and consuming hatred. Two of her followers had led their priestess to another secluded outbuilding that stood some seven miles northwest of the main compound. The retreat had been supplied with a large supply of food, water and petrol for the generator that provided electricity to the small cottage. The cottage had been secretly constructed, ostensibly as a retreat, but in retrospect, Asari wondered if she had been motivated by some sense of what was to come even all those years before.

In the last decade of the twentieth century, it seemed that religious persecution was on the extinction list of ugly crimes against humanity. What a sorry delusion that had been. As he companions led her, Asari uttered a spate of ugly, humorless laughter. The two other women exchanged puzzled glances, but said nothing. As America had begun to spin ever faster into the declining years of apathy and violence, the hate groups had returned to spread their bombastic message of intolerance. Asari believed that men could fervently claim that they had evolved...that higher virtues were now sacrosanct, but when the social fabric began to unravel, they quickly regressed back to the old habits...fear of darkness and all things extraordinary. So perhaps Zavora had always anticipated a day when the Wiccan order would be called to account for its defiant refusal to either conform or vanish.

The two women had led Zavora to the retreat and begged her to go to the police for protection. Asari had offered the pair a fey smile. "The police cannot protect us. What happened tonight is a perfect illustration of that. We're alone now."

Zavora recalled clearly how both women had shuddered as stark comprehension dawned in their eyes. Gently, but firmly, she had sent the pair home after eliciting a promise that neither would approach the authorities. Any police scrutiny would only hinder Zavora's quest for vengeance.

Now, less than a day later, Zavora was alone and ready both spiritually and physically to take her first step along the path to retribution. Stepping into the small kitchen, Zavora quickly stepped out of the robe she wore. Gathering up the supplies she would require, Asari deliberately pushed all thoughts from her mind, concentrating only on the mechanics of what was to follow.

The ritual of the silver flame.

It was the first time that Asari had allowed the thought to take tangible shape in her mind. The ancient, arcane ritual was known only to a select few within the order. Stepping out into the September night, her lithe, naked body shivered as the cool winds caressed her tight flesh.

A small circular pool had been dug into the soft Vermont soil some thirty yards into the woods. Zavora carried her implements to the edge of the pit and placed them next to the edge of the stone lined enclosure. Then she set about the task of starting a fire in the heart of the pit.

Many arcane rituals and ceremonies were performed around a blazing fire and thus the priestess lit the blaze deftly, forcing herself to concentrate only upon the mechanics of the ritual ahead and not the grave implications of what she was about to attempt.

Again, she was touched by a sense of closure as if the river of her life had flown inevitably towards this specific juncture in time. She had never developed close personal relationships...never married nor thought of having children. Yes, she had been vigorously pursued for both her austere beauty and her cultured manner, yet something had prompted her to remain aloof...inaccessible.

Now the mystery of the gulf revealed itself as she had been born to enact this ritual. Any earthly attachments would have only proven to be impediments to its success. Instinctively she had avoided these entanglements and could now face the ritual of the silver flame without remorse or regret.

Once the flames had reached a strong, steady peak, Zavora knelt near the north extreme of the pit and began to arrange her implements around the head of the circle. The assortment of items would seem decidedly odd to the uninitiated and still unusual to those who had experience in the complex systems of ritual witchcraft.

This ritual had never been enacted as far as Zavora knew for it was an extreme that approached the boundaries of utter madness and dark magic. Zavora, as a scholar of Wicca, had taken the time to learn every facet of the ceremony, but never had she foreseen circumstances in which she would be forced to enact it. The kiss of the silver flame was simply too terrible, too permanent to contemplate...the darkest magic from a lost and forbidden grimoire.

With slightly trembling hands, Zavora placed the pewter bowl between her knees. Then she double checked the arrangement of her remaining supplies to insure that everything was well at hand. Once the ritual commenced, there would be no tolerance for error. The two primary ingredients of this ritual were a tiny bottle that held a silver suspension and a small vial of quicksilver. Zavora drew another deep breath to quell her anxiety and then picked up the jar containing the silver suspension, emptying its contents into the pewter bowl. To this, Asari added the quicksilver and swirled the contents about the bowl, noting how the Mercury did not mix with the silver suspension.

The September breeze began to blow with greater insistence, but Zavora failed to notice. Now the difficult part of the ritual was upon her after which there would be no turning back.

Zavora closed her eyes and conjured an image of her avowed enemy to marshal her courage. With the hateful face clearly embossed in her mind, she picked up the athane.

Extending her long left arm, Zavora placed the tip of the athane in the hollow of her inside elbow. Then, after a momentary hesitation, she drew the dagger down the length of the unmarred flesh, carving a bloody river to the wrist. Zavora uttered a kettle-like hiss, but made no other utterance. Nor did she falter as a thick stream of blood began to run into the pewter bowl. Ignoring the incisive pain, she repeated the process on the other arm, holding both arms over the pewter bowl until the surface of the contents had turned vermillion. Finally, when blood loss threatened to plunge her into unconsciousness, Asari set the bowl aside.

Drawing a deep breath, she glanced down along the length of her gore-spattered body. Though the pain was a minimal, receding thing, Zavora could sense weakness tugging at her resolve. Unsteadily, she rose to her feet and as she did, the night swam in and out of focus. Zavora spread her long legs to brace herself, knowing that her time to complete the ritual was drawing to an end.

"Please mother, turn your beloved face upon this imperfect child!" Asari cried in a voice made thin and tremulous by blood loss. "Cleanse my impurities and fortify my body and soul so that I might become the instrument of your vengeance."

Asari gazed up at the silver galleon, wondering if her adjurations would be heard.

"Bring down your judgment upon Gregor Ingram and his ilk. Transform this imperfect flesh into an implacable vessel of your retribution!" Through failing vision, Asari thought that the face of the moon had brightened and interpreted this as a sign of approval.

Carefully, she retrieved the bowl, trying grimly not to fumble the contents through gore-slicked fingers. Taking one tentative step towards the fire pit, Zavora then heaved the bowl's contents into the flames.

For a brief instant, the flames guttered and Zavora feared that her efforts had been met with failure. She envisioned the police finding her naked, an apparent victim of suicide and knew that Ingram would greet word of her demise with triumph.

Slowly, Zavora sank to her knees and slumped forward, turning her face away from the feeble flames. She could sense the close proximity of her death and began to cry.

"Still your tears, child!" Zavora's breath seized in her chest and she cautiously lifted her head. Suddenly, all thoughts of pain, despair and ultimate failure were banished from her mind.

The incredible visage before her consumed her grief and in its place came a swell of reverence and euphoria that was well near unbearable in its magnitude. In a towering bank of argent flame stood the countenance of the goddess...her divine beauty was a thing of blinding brilliance in the silver light.

"Are you...real?" Zavora inquired, briefly wondering if her faltering mind had not conjured this final illusion as a desperate denial of failure. The compelling creature offered Zavora a radiant smile. "Cast off the chains of despair, my child. I have not forsaken you. The balance of power between the Gods is an exceedingly complex thing. Ancient pacts preclude interference in the earthly affairs of men. Still, there are acts that will never be tolerated. Gregor Ingram has committed the most heinous of crimes and he will be called to account for each and every on of my children who died at his hands."

Zavora scrambled eagerly forward, her eyes alive with a mad light. "Please, choose me as the instrument of your vengeance."

The argent entity's smile hardened perceptibly as she extended her arms. "Come to me, child. In this matter, you shall be my agent."

Asari uttered a hysterical peel of laugher and summoning the last of her waning strength, bound into the pyre and the waiting arms of her goddess.

The silver entity enfolded Zavora Asari in her unearthly embrace and tenderly kissed her cheek. Abruptly, the flames erupted, spiraling skyward like a geyser, carrying both the goddess and her supplicant into the night sky.

In the pit, the flames died quickly and once again, the only sound to be heard was the desolate wail of the September wind.

Chapter Fifteen

1

Logan airport was abuzz with travelers returning to college or back from summer vacation.

Jurgen Gerchnau stood in the baggage retrieval area, gazing about the modern terminal. His outward expression remained impassive despite his incredulity. Immediately, he noticed how lax the security was in contrast to the prevailing atmosphere of paranoia that existed in most eastern European airports where crumbling communist regimes still clung doggedly to power.

Jurgen retrieved his single bag and headed toward the rental booths. Securing quality false papers had been a relatively simple matter and they had easily survived the cursory inspection at the customs gate. To the world, Gerchnau was an Austrian business man named Gerhard Klennig.

The German selected a nondescript sedan from Tilden and sat in the vast parking lot, studying a complex roadmap of Boston and environs. The density of the American road system amazed Jurgen, who began to wonder if the entire country was surfaced with asphalt.

Painstakingly, Jurgen plotted his route into Metropolitan Boston. Finding Elizabeth Simpson was the furthest thing from his mind at that precise moment. Locating the son would be his immediate priority. Considering the matter, the German decided that Nathaniel Simpson would be the quickest path to his demon mother. If the son had no real idea where the whore could be found, he could still be used as an inducement to lure Elizabeth Simpson out of hiding.

Gerchnau drove cautiously into the city's interior, taking a room at a generic motel. There he unpacked his bag and assembled the all plastic Glock that he had smuggled through customs. After he had meticulously cleaned and assembled the gun, Jurgen perused the Boston and area phone directory, finally locating the only Nathaniel Simpson in the book. Then he settled back on the bed, smiling over his good fortune thus far.

If things went well, the matter of Elizabeth Simpson would be set to rest in the next short while. He decided that her beautiful head would serve as a fitting trophy and beyond that...the future held limitless possibilities.

2

The immediate target of Jurgen Gerchnau's machinations, Nathaniel Simpson, found himself mired in worry, though he had no clear concept of the imminent danger that hovered over his life like a dark shadow.

In his preoccupation, he saw only his wife and the strange and erratic mood that had befallen the woman he loved. Where his wife had always been passionate, now she had become surly...even volatile. When he would attempt to broach the subject of her change in temper, she would only become sullen and withdrawn...a state totally out of character for a woman who never hesitated to express her opinion when cornered.

Essentially, his wife had become a stranger. Simpson closed his eyes and sighed. His first inclination was to attribute this change to her pregnancy, but some inner instinct warned him against drawing such a trite conclusion. Her mood had changed radically with Elizabeth's sudden appearance and had continued to deteriorate even after her departure. Though he couldn't fathom the connection, it was pointless to deny the connection was very real.

He stole a furtive glance at his wife, who sat curled on a nearby love seat, locked behind a wall of brooding silence. What traumatic scars had her ordeal in the mountains of Romania left on her psyche? He had shared those experiences with her but knew that it was impossible to gauge personal feelings against those of another. Though he may have suffered more in physical terms, Contayza had lost her entire family and had been dispossessed from her homeland.

On the surface, Contayza appeared strong enough to endure any deprivation or loss, but who was to say what toll had been extracted? Perhaps Elizabeth dramatic appearance had unleashed a myriad of repressed grief and misery. Nathaniel did not know for certain, but his wife had changed dramatically and he was forced to admit that he was starting to be afraid.

Nath returned his gaze to the television set, another source of concern that now weighed heavily on his mind. The massacre of the Wiccan order in Vermont signified the approach of a dark, yet unfathomable calamity that Nath feared would lay waste to his world.

Zavora Asari had been referring to his mother during her infamous interview with Kramer Halston. Elizabeth had voiced this opinion and Nath believed her. Accepting this premise, it was not illogical to link the carnage in Vermont to his mother. Whoever Zavora Asari's enemies were (and Nath had little doubt that one of them was a famous televangelist), they were also sworn to Elizabeth's destruction.

With the acceptance of this thread of weaving that connected the dark events of the past few days to his mother, Nath came to grasp the imminent peril that hovered over his family like a bank of brooding thunderheads.

For the third time in his life, the dark specter loomed its ugly head over all that he loved. After the events in Romania, Nath felt certain that he had freed himself from Cynara's evil blight. In the intervening years between the monster's death and this moment of awful clarity, the scar on his chest had faded and finally vanished. With its disappearance, Nath had felt emancipated...free to live a normal life where the only darkness was to be found in his occasional nightmares.

How ingenuous...how utterly naive he had been.

Cynara's legacy had survived the demon and now stalked her enemies from the grave. How long would it be before that threat turned directly upon his family? The prospect chilled Nathaniel's blood. He stole a furtive glance at Tayza, who continued to stare at the television with baleful concentration. She had the right to be apprised of these fears, but Nath faltered at the thought of telling her, knowing that she would delegate the blame squarely upon the shoulders of Elizabeth.

Nath's attention shifted back to the screen, where CNN had turned from Vermont to another location where nearly a dozen state patrol cars were parked in the muddy lot of a small motel.

The cold needle of prescience pricked his thoughts then and Nath forced himself to concentrate on the reporter's monologue.

"Brutal violence seems to have become the order of the day in this country. This isolated Colorado motel...a stop over for cross country travelers...last night became the scene of an incomprehensibly brutal murder."

Here, the camera panned the small office reception area, which was spattered with an incredible quantity of blood, that had dried to a lifeless maroon color. Simpson grimaced and shifted his gaze to Contayza, whose lovely face remained impassive. He wondered if her constant exposure to such grizzly brutality had completely desensitized her to its stark horror.

"The sheer savagery of this particular murder is not the primary reason why this case has drawn national attention. Behind the grim spectacle of violence, police have uncovered a mystery that has raised unanswered questions nearly a quarter century old."

Nath sat forward in his chair, his heart suddenly trip hammering in his chest. The camera followed the reporter along the broken slabs of concrete, before entering the interior of one of the units. The interior was a jumble of broken furniture, shattered plaster and fragmented panel board.

Slowly, the reported stepped to the center of the demolished room, casting a theatrical glance down at the charred remains of a box spring mattress. "Oddly enough, this was the only occupied unit during the brutal murder of Owen Charliss. Obviously, this unit was also the scene of indescribable violence, though the police have detected no physical evidence that an actual murder was committed here. The occupants have evidently vanished as the only vehicle remaining at the isolated motel is registered to the late Mr. Charliss."

Again, another theatrical hesitation for dramatic effect and then the reporter continued, "This is where the situation takes a decidedly bizarre twist. This unit was registered to one Elizabeth Simpson formerly of Washington State."

Nathaniel stiffened, his face twisted in apoplexy. Beside him, Contayza emitted a strangled gasp.

"Elizabeth Simpson, late of Semelar, Washington, vanished without a trace during a massive flood and fire which devastated that town nearly twenty-five years ago. Ms. Simpson was traveling with another girl who was registered as her daughter."

The reporter then exited the unit and stood, gazing out across the muddy courtyard. "Police have yet to draw any conclusions as to what might have transpired at this motel. A nation wide APB has been issued for Ms. Simpson, but police concede that this particular mystery may never be solved until much older questions are answered first."

Nath sagged back in his chair, staring vacantly at the television screen, trying to absorb some of what he had just heard.

"Nathaniel, what does this mean?" Contayza demanded in a tone that was inexplicably accusatory, as though he might somehow be culpable in what had happened in that distant Colorado motel. Nath glanced at his wife, his face alight with misery. "I...I don't know. Obviously, Elizabeth is heading west just as she intended."

"And this mysterious daughter?"

Nath shrugged in open dismay. "I just don't know."

"Quite frankly, there's a great deal you don't know about Elizabeth. Her life is veiled in mystery. She's a hieroglyph. Since the events In Semelar, you've spent less than two weeks with her...two weeks in over twenty-five years. We know nothing about her and that ignorance could be dangerous to us." Tayza placed the flat of her hand on her growing belly. "We are your only family, Nathaniel. Never forget that!"

That final pronouncement had been delivered in a calm, dispassionate voice and once spoken, Contayza wheeled about and stalked off, leaving Nath in the company of his mounting confusion.

3

Contayza left Nath alone in the solarium, knowing that she had to flee lest she betray some of the emotional turbulence that was rolling through her mind like dark thunder.

As she climbed the flight of stairs, her back aching as it did incessantly now, that tiny voice began to recite the now familiar admonition. ' _Your daughter is in danger! She intends to have your daughter!_ '

Tayza bolted to her room and collapsed onto the bed. That damnable voice had nagged her without respite since she had last visited the doctor. It had hounded her like a ravenous beast until all logical thought had been consumed in anxiety.

A small, rational part of her mind implored her to realize that all of this was ludicrous. Whatever Elizabeth had become, her love for her son was unquestionable and unflagging. Had she not risked everything to save him on the grim night in Chevru five years before?

Tayza tried to cling to that tiny glimmer of reason the way a drowning man might attempt to retain his grip on a slippery life preserver. Still, as the moment of birth loomed nearer, she found it increasingly difficult not to surrender to her paranoia. That tiny worm of discord assumed greater control over Contayza Simpson with every passing moment.

Now, with the decidedly bizarre incident in Colorado, Tayza's fears assumed a concrete form.

"A daughter," Tayza murmured the words softly and shivered, despite the warmth of the early September afternoon.

' _A warning!_ ' the tiny voice suggested and Tayza could find no argument to refute the notion. Doubtless, Elizabeth did not have a daughter, nor was she traveling in the company of a young girl. Simpson was too obsessed by this search for her lost lover to be encumbered by a companion.

Contayza abruptly sat up as the seeds of an idea germinated in the paranoia rich soil of her thoughts. Punching the telephone console, she activated the directory assistance memory. From there, she entered the New York City area code and waited impatiently while the AT&T computer downloaded the appropriate information.

As she waited, Tayza's thoughts turned to the way she had allowed her heritage...her traditions...to lapse. Partly, she had eschewed her cultural background as a gesture of accommodation for Nath and her new home. Other, more complex motivations revolved around her need to forget the past and the tragedy that had befallen her family.

' _All dead now_ ,' she thought morosely, murdered by Cynara or the Romanian dictatorship, both of which had now crumbled to dust. Only she had survived and she could not think of Romania or the way of the Gypsy without conjuring images of Ivan, her Grandfather and all of the others who had perished during that bleak winter.

As fate would have it, now she required the old ways, and as she summoned images of her beloved Grandfather, Lemuel spoke to her in silent tones of mild reproof. Her entire family was gone...lost to her forever except through the sepia filter of memories. Only her husband and her unborn child remained and Lemuel implored her to dedicate her life to their protection. As thought in concurrence, Tayza nodded absently.

By turning away from her heritage, she had unwittingly abandoned the one means of combating the menace now hovering over her family. America, for all of its many imperfections, was still a place of relative civility. It lacked the sensibility to accept a creature of Elizabeth Simpson's ilk, much less stop her evil machinations. Conversely, her roots were planted in the soil of a land that understood implicitly that the darkness was not a toothless beast. Evil was all too real and the night gave cover to horrors too awful to even contemplate.

Still, it was in this darkness where she would find the means to give opposition to Elizabeth and her masters.

The telephone console indicated that all of the pertinent data had been downloaded. Tayza call forth the main menu of the console's elaborate indexing program and typed in the ethnic divisions command. Scanning down the master list, Tayza finally selected Romania from the list of Nations.

A moment later, a submenu appeared which listed everything that was pertinent to Romanian culture in the New York City area. Contayza's fingers marked the screen as she scrolled through the extensive list of shops, markets and associations that dealt in every aspect of her culture.

Finally, the display divulged the one piece of information that Contayza had been seeking. Smiling, Contayza depressed the print button and a plain paper copy of the displayed information slide forth from the machine. Tayza neatly folded the sheet into the pocket of her jeans, then pressed the dial option and waited while the connection was established.

She stole a brief glance at the bedroom door, her expression an uncomfortable blend of guilt and guile. Being sly with Nathaniel was something that frankly she did not enjoy. Nonetheless, Nathaniel was blinded by unremitting love for his mother. In the years of her absence, Nath had reconstructed a perfect image of the woman he scarcely knew. Nothing would ever tarnish that contrived image in his eyes and thus the burden of thwarting Elizabeth's vile ambition to have her daughter would fall to Tayza. A certain degree of subterfuge was necessary because Nath would never tolerate any indictment against his beloved Elizabeth.

Finally, the connection was made and the telephone began to ring. The fourth ring brought a soft voice that spoke in accented English. "Hello."

The speaker's tone evoked a smile from Tayza because she could clearly detect the trace of mistrust that was an instinctive trait of all true Gypsies when dealing with strangers.

To set the woman at ease, Contayza responded in her native tongue. "Mina Corschau, my name is Contayza Prowzi...I understand you're gifted with the sight."

There was a moment's hesitation and then the woman responded, "Maybe I am...Maybe I'm not. The truth would depend on why you want to know."

"I have...a problem. I need an inquiry, if you understand my meaning."

"You said your name was Prowzi?" the woman demanded in a tone that was now openly suspicious.

"Yes, from the province of Bistrita-Nasaud. If you're from the old country, perhaps you've heard of my grandfather, Lemuel?"

"Lemuel Prowzi!" the woman exclaimed. "That old goat is your grandfather...by the God. How is he?"

"Dead," Tayza replied flatly. "Killed by the Romanian government five years ago."

Mina paused for a moment and then offered solemnly, "That is unfortunate. The homeland is blessed now that the communist dogs have all been sent to the rope. It's a shame that so many had to die before Romania was freed."

Ignoring the invitation to lament the fate of her ancestry, Tayza forged ahead, "I find myself in a very delicate situation. I require a special brand of help. There are decisions I must make, but there are things that I must know before I can make the difficult choices I face."

"I can hear from your voice that you've been plagued," Mina ventured, grasping the implied request. After all, there was a special brand of negotiations her people had developed down through the ages.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. I am not certain and that is why I require help...guidance."

There followed a protracted silence, and finally the Gypsy seer spoke, "Can you possibly come to New York in the next few days?"

"If you can see me, I'll find a way."

"Very well, come tomorrow if you are able. Contayza Prowzi, I sense a penumbra of destiny hovering about you. It speaks in urgent undertones through your façade of composure. I knew Lemuel to have been a man who regaled all who would listen with tales of an old evil and wrongs that had yet to be avenged. You are his descendent."

"I'll come tomorrow," Tayza promised and rang off, her mind formulating a way of going to New York without Nathaniel knowing. She was determined to go one way or another, but his ignorance would make matters considerably less complicated.

I suddenly burst upon her mind just how wide the rift between herself and Nathaniel had opened. The enormity of her intended action struck like the fall of a mallet. Was she really planning to leave her husband to seek out and kill his mother? If she succeeded, could she realistically expect that her life would return to any semblance of normalcy once Elizabeth was dead? Was she so foolish as to believe that Nath could actually accept her actions, much less forgive them?

These questions occurred to her in staccato succession, but she was surprised by how easily she was able to avoid any contemplation of possible answers. That she was capable of silencing that small plea of deliberation demonstrated the strength of her conviction...her unshakable certainty that Elizabeth Simpson was evil and that she had designs upon Contayza's unborn child.

4

The next day dawned overcast and cool. Gray clouds drifted indolently across the sky, bringing with them the promise of heavy rain.

"A fitting day for what I plan to do," Tayza thought, surprised by the degree of anxiety that had come with the new morning. During breakfast, she had feigned joviality, for which she could see that Nath was genuinely grateful. She experienced a rush of profound love and pity then. Nath was the sweetest man she had ever met...a man whose whole world revolved around building a quiet, normal life for his family. Unlike Contayza, and despite all that he had endured in the past, Nathaniel Simpson was ill-equipped to deal with what was to come.

Just after seven, Nath kissed his wife and departed for work, totally oblivious to the fact that his life was about to undergo a radical change that would sweep him away on a tide of absolute chaos.

Once Nath had disappeared from sight, Tayza raced to the phone and called the school principal, feigning illness and apologizing profusely for being unable to work that day. Though clearly irked by being left short at the last minute, he wished her a speedy recovery. Dispensing with that one bit of unpleasantness, Tayza prepared to leave and found herself heading out of Boston some thirty minutes later, her anxiety mounting with each passing mile.

Arriving in New York, Tayza drove around unfamiliar Queens in seemingly endless loops until she finally located Mina Corschau's brownstone.

The building, like a good portion of the borough, had fallen into a state of mild disrepair despite the best efforts of the tenants to maintain the property. At the base of the stairs, Tayza paused and glanced both ways along the street which she was surprised to discover was deserted. Quickly, she mounted the steps and rang the appropriate buzzer. An instant later, a reedy electronic squawk filled the chilly air. "Yes?"

"Mina, it's Contayza Prowzi," she declared in her native tongue.

Without replying, the seer granted access to the brownstone. Contayza entered the shadowy main hall and waited patiently while Mina came to collect her from the second floor apartment. When she finally appeared, neither woman spoke for several seconds, instead appraising each other in thoughtful silence. After a time, Mina gave Tayza a slight nod of approval and gestured for the younger woman to follow her back to the second floor apartment.

In the soft, yet effective yellow light of the apartment, Tayza was afforded her first good look at Mina Corschau. The woman appeared to be in her mid to late fifties and was rail thin. Her skin seemed dull...almost sallow, in the muted light. It took less than thirty seconds for Tayza to deduce that Mina was very ill...perhaps gravely so. Only her dark brown eyes seemed alive and attentive.

"Come and sit," Mina invited warmly and gestured toward a worn armchair. Sitting across from Tayza, she settled back in her chair and resumed her scrutiny of her guest. Contayza could feel herself wanting to look away from the gaze, but some instinct informed her that this would not be wise. Instead, she raised her chin and stared defiantly back at the seer.

The seer clapped her hands and uttered a papery chuckle. "Ah yes, you are a Prowzi. There is no mistaking that aloof, arrogant manner...not to mention that beauty."

Now Contayza did blink and avert her gaze to her hands. Six months pregnant, she did not feel anything approaching beautiful. "You said that you knew my grandfather."

"Not only did I know of him...I knew him personally. Lemuel was an incorrigible rogue, but he possessed an indomitable spirit. It is a shame that those communist bastards killed him...he deserved a far better death."

"Yes," Tayza responded simply. "Will you ever go back to Romania, Mina Corschau?"

The old woman shook her head, her expression becoming wistful and melancholy. "No, this is my home now. I left Romania nearly twenty years ago, after I cursed the son of a local politburo member. The pig died a particularly nasty death and I was forced to flee for my life. The Gypsies helped me flee into Hungary. One of them was your grandfather."

"Why did you curse to boy?"

"Would you be particularly surprised if I say he raped me?" Mina inquired, her gaze locked firmly in the past. "The communists despised us, of course...just as Hitler did. Still, if you were even vaguely attractive, the pigs believed they had the right to treat you like a personal play thing. After he was done with me, I swore that I would kill him. He merely laughed because he believed that I was frightened and powerless. He lived long enough to learn that he was woefully wrong on both counts...though barely."

Mina's eyes found Contayza's. "Perhaps you should tell me why you've come here, Contayza. Be forewarned...I must know everything if I am to truly be of any help."

And so Contayza did exactly that. Over the course of the next two hours, Contayza unfolded the tale of the Prowzi family odyssey and the family's long history involving the demon, Cynara Saravic. At the mention of the demon's name, Mina's eyes darkened. "So the old legends were more than simple tales."

"No, they most definitely were not just simple tales. I was there when she was finally killed." Dispassionately, Contayza resumed her monologue, finally concluding with Elizabeth's surprise re-appearance and her equally hasty departure. When she concluded her story, Contayza settled back into her chair, strangely weary as though the recounting of the story had extracted a heavy toll upon her.

Mina absorbed the story in attentive silence, privately staggered by the grim saga that had been this beautiful woman's life. There could be little doubt that the final chapter of this dark drama remained to be written.

"Did you see the demon actually die?" she inquired softly.

"Yes!" Tayza insisted vehemently.

"When we first spoke on the phone, the sense of destiny threading through you voice resounded like a palpable thing through the miles between us. Now that I sit face to face with you, I can discern an obscure, but powerful force surrounding you like a mantle. That is not precisely correct...what I sense is more like a shadow."

Contayza nodded thoughtfully, but then her face crumpled in anguish. "I've been confused, but more and more I am plagued by the certainty that Elizabeth has designs upon my daughter. I need to know if there is any basis for my anxiety. If there is, I must take every step to stop her."

The seer nodded solemnly. "Perhaps I can help, but I urge you to consider the precarious nature of your situation. When one does battle with evil creatures such as Cynara and possibly this Elizabeth, they stand to lose far more than their lives. They risk forfeiture of their very souls."

"You have tasted the dark path before and know the perils better than I, but I caution you not to allow your anxiety to prod you into rash action. Having said that, I will try to help you. Now, extend both hands with the palms facing the ceiling."

Contayza complied with neither hesitation nor embarrassment, bracing herself for the revelation...however dire. As Mina inhaled softly, she was keenly aware of the forces that were coalescing around the two women. Then she placed here hands on top of Contayza's".

Immediately, Mina was deluged by the enormous power that was contained inside the tiny vessel sitting across from her. Her only reaction was a slight widening of her eyes and a faint smile that played over her lips. "Ah, so you are not without your own considerable abilities. In fact, your gift is the most formidable I've ever come into contact with."

Contayza acknowledged the seer's discovery with a feral grin. "You see, I'm not entirely helpless."

"Indeed!" Mina agreed and then frowned. The sense of a hovering shadow was now more pronounced than ever. Gradually, an image began to take shape in the older woman's mind. The shadow that hovered over Contayza was most definitely feminine in aspect, but Mina could not distinguish any of its features. She attempted to coax it out into the light of her vision, but it effortlessly shrugged her off. In a low monotone, Mina began to speak as vague impression filtered from Contayza's shadow companion. "I see a woman looming over your life and the lives of those you love. This woman wears a face that is known to you, but it is a façade of deception. In her heart, she harbors a dark enmity towards you and would not hesitate to cause you harm. You must guard against her machinations and not be lulled by the façade of her gentle beauty...she is marking you from every shadow...just as she has in the past."

As abruptly as the seer began, she broke off, her entire body shuddering violently. "I...I can see no more," she stammered. "The shadow has departed.

When she shifted her gaze to Contayza Prowzi, she was confronted by the fierce portrait of a warrior and realized that the woman had found the answer she had been seeking. A sharp note of discord rang in the seer's mind and it occurred to her that she may just have committed a huge misjudgment, the ramifications of which were beyond her ability to fathom. Still, she found herself incapable of deciphering the riddle of her error. Afraid to concede her weakness, Mina Corschau remained silent.

"I was right!" Contayza exclaimed vehemently. "That damnable bitch...we should have killed her in Chevru as well."

Mina recoiled and shivered in the face of Tayza's enmity. Something was desperately wrong. The room was charged by scores of unseen entities who watched the two women with growing interest.

"Be patient, Contayza Prowzi," the seer reiterated. "There is a vague aspect to what I have seen...one that argues against drawing hasty conclusions. Not all portents are as transparent as they may first appear, Contayza. The fact that the figure is still veiled in shadow indicates there is an aura of confusion or doubt surrounding this situation."

Contayza blinked, though her eyes had assumed the flinty slant which suggested she was not prepared to heed the seer's advice.

"Let's try again," the seer recommended. "Perhaps we might clarify the matter further."

Reluctantly, Contayza extended her hands to the older woman, who accepted them and closed her eyes. At once, the shadow appeared over the younger woman, glowing like an ebony corona.

Focusing her power of concentration, Mina attempted to penetrate the veil, she suddenly a titanic voice detonated in her skull...as vast and reverberating explosion of sound that sent her hurtling backwards.

"Meddlesome bitch! Your interference will not be tolerated."

Mina landed heavily on her right shoulder and emitted a muffled grunt of pain. Tayza watched, all but paralyzed by the enormity of the power that had just brushed by her. She attempted to rise from her seat, but found herself immobilized by terror as the tangible world had given way to the vision that had so confounded the seer.

Now, a bright light appeared, chasing away the shadow that had obscured the figure. Contayza uttered a grunt, of revulsion. Just as she'd suspected...Elizabeth Simpson's beautiful countenance shimmered before her. Gone was the deceiver's aspect of angelic beauty. The deep blue eyes that regarded Contayza were alive with malicious delight.

"So there it is, whore," the apparition snarled. "There are no secrets between us. You forced me to kill my lover and stole my son. It is only fitting that I have your child by way of compensation."

"You'll have to kill me first,"

"A pleasure I'll look forward to with keen anticipation," Elizabeth declared with a hungry grin. "I'll be waiting for you. I think you know where. We can settle old accounts once and for all."

Abruptly, the apparition vanished and Contayza found herself gazing down on Mina Corschau who was struggling to regain her feet. Quickly, Tayza rushed to the older woman and assisted her to her feet.

Mina gasped in obvious discomfort as she settled into a worn sofa, glancing up at Contayza with eyes that were large and rife with apprehension. "You were right to come to me, girl. You have powerful enemies."

"Oh no," Contayza contradicted, "I have only one enemy. I know precisely who she is."

Mina started to clutch Contayza's wrist, but faltered, fearing another connection with whatever had first assailed her. "Listen to me, Girl! Something is terribly wrong with what I've just seen. An augury should not have the ability to reach out and touch us as it did. There is something terrible and evil at work here, Contayza. I am too old and too weak to flush it out, but there are others in this city that can. I implore you see one of these women before you decide on any course of action."

Contayza shook her head emphatically. "I have no time, Mina. The bitch means to have my daughter and so I have to find her first. Elizabeth Simpson must not be allowed to live to see the birth of my child."

The seer sighed. The young woman was clearly intractable on the matter and Mina finally came to the conclusion that she could well be under some manner of dark enchantment.

"Please, I can make the phone call and introduction. This woman will see you at once."

Contayza shook her head and rose to her feet. "There is no need, I've learned everything I wished to know." Opening her purse, she asked, "How much?"

Mina waved her off. "There is no charge between blood. I only ask you to listen."

Contayza Prowzi was already racing towards the door, the image of her tormentor firmly fixed in her mind.

Chapter Sixteen

1

"This place is beautiful," Cassie remarked quietly, gazing out at the green jewel of the Pacific as it flashed by to her left. On her right, towering redwoods lined the highway, their leaves rustling gently in the soft breeze.

The date was September the seventh.

The implications of this particular date were lost upon both Cassie and even Elizabeth, yet it had been exactly twenty-five years before that an aspiring young writer named David Stillman had made this exact same trip. With Stillman's return, a process had been set in motion that was only now reaching its climactic moments.

Though unaware of this dark anniversary, Elizabeth was nonetheless anxious about returning to the place where her life had been irreversibly altered. Cassie sensed the woman's mounting tension as the two grew closer to the tiny Washington town. Elizabeth had divulged little of the events that had befallen her here and thus Cassie could not clearly grasp the source of this anxiety. Still, she found herself content to be in the other woman's formidable presence. For the first time in her life, she had found a sense of place and serenity...all of which made the more bizarre aspect of her new life much less terrifying.

"Why are we coming here?" she suddenly blurted.

Elizabeth cast the girl a sudden nervous glance and Jasic was stunned by the extent of the woman's anxiety. Simpson returned her attention to the road. "It's not an easy thing to explain in rational terms, Cassie, but I'll try."

"You see, it was in Semelar that I made the forced transition from mortal to immortal. It was where I was seduced by the demon who transformed me. It is also the place where David attempted to stop Cynara...and ultimately failed."

"What do you mean to do once we arrive?" the girl asked, tossing her red mane in the warm September wind.

Elizabeth sighed...the girl was remarkably incisive. She hoped that the future would afford her the opportunity to help Cassie develop to her limitless potential. Still, how could she explain what she intended to do in coherent terms when she, herself, was stunned by the temerity of what she planned to attempt. She intended to delve into the darkest waters imaginable with no clear understanding of how she would emerge.

"Again, it is not an easy thing to explain, but I need to confront the specter of that demon. She has to tell me where to find David...if he's still alive."

Despite her youth, Cassie seemed to perceive the potential danger such a bold gamble would entail. Glancing at Elizabeth with naked horror, she stammered, "Do you think...this...is this wise?"

Elizabeth shrugged noncommittally and not trusting herself to speak, returned her attention to the task of driving. The thought of facing Cynara was both intimidating and distasteful. Cynara was, after all, her former lover...tormentor...mistress. The very image of the dark lady still evoked a rush of confusing emotions. Five years removed from their dramatic final confrontation, how did Elizabeth truly feel about Cynara Saravic? If she was being completely candid, Elizabeth would be forced to admit that she did not despise Cynara. Indeed, Saravic had been a monster, ever inventive in her cruelty, but beneath all of this there existed a vast and terrible loneliness that no human could ever endure. In her desire to fill that void, she had taken everything Simpson valued and yet, she had gifted her with immortality in return. Elizabeth was honest enough to admit that she would not be easily compelled to relinquish her immortality, except to save her family. It was unthinkable that she might return to the wretched state of half living that passed for normal human life.

And yet, to again face Cynara Saravic...to stand before her and pose the pivotal question that had become the driving force in her life? The thought caused her to shudder. What if Cynara revealed that she had killed David after all? Worse yet, what if she simply refused to answer? Simpson savagely pushed these thoughts from her mind, knowing that such contemplations were agonizing and ultimately pointless.

Elizabeth's first glimpse of her birthplace caused her breath to hitch in her chest. It was accompanied by a dizzying rush of memories as though the entire contents of her human life had been compressed into sixty second. All of the highs and lows, triumphs and disappointments impacted upon her as though she had experienced them only yesterday.

In the years since she had regained possession of her now immortal body, Elizabeth had never really allowed herself to think of Semelar and the life she had lived there. The sense of loss had simply been too poignant to bear, so she had walled Semelar off deep in her subconscious mind.

The actual town had not changed to any great extent in the past quarter century, though the traditional lumber barons were now fading memories of another era. Population-wise, the town had not changed significantly, though some of the old timers...those who predated the great fire and flood...understood that the town had changed in a fundamental ways that outsiders could not possibly recognize. Semelar had become a sterile place that now lacked the power to hold the allegiance of those who lived and worked there.

Nor had the town been able to grow in prominence, despite the dedicated efforts of one economic development committee after the other. Semelar existed as though under a penumbra of misfortune. The ambitious quickly left when they reached college age, while the others merely languished, unable to identify the source of their discontent.

Even this pall, this malady of the town's soul was not the strangest affliction to plague Semelar. Beginning with the great flood and fire, disaster had struck the town with distressing frequency. Some of these dark events could be attributed to simple misfortune while others defied logical explanation.

Just three years before, a group of thirteen teenagers (most, hell-raisers from a section of town formerly known as the lowlands) had decided to go on a Saturday night tear. The group, referring to itself as a coven due to its thirteen members, decided that the decrepit mansion on Rothman road would be a great place to drink beer and do whatever else hormone-charged teenagers did on a summer night.

During this night of decadence, something had gone horribly and inexplicably wrong. The next morning would find twelve of the thirteen dead. The only survivor was a teenage girl who bore a startling resemblance to a long-departed Elizabeth Simpson. She had been found wandering aimlessly through the thick foliage just north of the town limits, her condition varying between periods of catatonia and raving hysteria.

When police questioned the girl, she could provide only a fragmented account of what had transpired the night before. She spoke of a hanging woman...a malevolent specter that fell upon the group in a murderous frenzy. Naturally, the police had discounted the girl's tale and she had been relegated to the infamous Semelar psychiatric institution, where she was still confined on the day that Elizabeth Simpson made her return after a quarter century absence.

Despite the cursory dismissal of the girl's story, the town selectmen had decided that it would be prudent to erect a chain link fence around the derelict property and this fence had been maintained at town expense ever since.

As Elizabeth cruised the Jaguar into the heart of town, she gazed around, struck by the sensation that the old Semelar of her mortal life existed, despite the changing facades.

"Does any of this look the same?" Cassie ventured tentatively.

"No...and yes," Elizabeth responded distantly. "The backdrops are different, but the town...the town exudes the same impression that it always did...something forgotten and sad."

Cassie merely nodded. Semelar seemed no different from the other hundreds of towns she had stumbled through during her sojourn through hell.

"We'll find a hotel, Cassie, but there's one thing I have so see first," Simpson explained. With this, she executed a right turn and left what passed for Semelar's business district behind.

As Cassie stole furtive glances at her benefactress, she correctly deduced that Simpson was maneuvering through narrow streets according to a mental map conjured from distant memory. Finally, the turned into a street lined with new and pleasant houses, most of which were bungalows and brick façade side splits. After heading south for two blocks, Elizabeth abruptly pulled the Jag to the curb before a two-storey wood frame house. Then, she sat staring at the house with an inscrutable expression set on her beautiful face.

Cassie watched her closely, sensing the gathering emotional storm, and suddenly Elizabeth buried her face in her elegant hands and began to sob. Her entire body was wracked by the violence of her crying. Cassie looked on in alarmed silence, not certain if a creature such as Elizabeth was even capable of being consoled.

Leaning forward, Simpson allowed her head to rest on the steering wheel. Unable to further endure the sight of Elizabeth torment, Cassie slid across the seat and drew the distraught woman to her, feeling awkward and uncertain. At first, Elizabeth was stiff, but gradually she allowed herself to settle into Cassie's embrace.

They remained this way for several moments. Cassie glanced up and down the street, grateful that it was deserted in the early afternoon. Finally, Elizabeth pushed herself away and withdrawing a Kleenex from her purse, dried her eyes, which appeared impossibly blue through the kaleidoscope of her tears.

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Cassie," she murmured, her voice choked with emotion.

"What is this place?" Cassie asked, her gaze fixed on the unobtrusive home.

"Just an ordinary family home, I would imagine," Elizabeth remarked distantly. "I'm a whimsical fool in some ways, Cassandra. When I was mortal, this is where I lived with my son, Nathaniel. I ran a small business from my home and it seemed that nothing would ever change...that my entire life would be one of contentment and permanence. What a silly notion that was."

She paused, fetching a deep sigh. "You would think that immortality would change your perspective...would make you see things in more pragmatic terms. Yet, I really thought that everything would be here just as if it was only yesterday. Seeing my home gone is incontrovertible proof that my old life is...is lost."

"This...this gives you no pleasure, does it?" Cassie asked, referring to Cynara's dark gift.

"No," Elizabeth admitted. "I see only what I've lost. Perhaps trying to find David is a gesture of romantic desperation, but I still feel compelled to try."

Turning to Cassie, she took the girl's hand in hers. "I must seem like an utter fool, Cassie. My life is so rich by comparison to what you've endured. I promise not to be that kind of burden. That's why I hope the two of us might give each other the things that are lacking in our own lives."

Sparing the house one final glance, Elizabeth put the car into gear and drove resolutely away.

2

Worst fears confirmed, Contayza hit the streets of New York City in a frenzy. She made the impulsive decision to depart for the west coast immediately. Going home to Nathaniel would only complicate matters and so it would be best to fly directly to Seattle and begin her hunt there.

During the remainder of the afternoon, Contayza made the arrangements for her departure, withdrawing the majority of the family savings to finance her deadly adventure. A tiny voice implored her to reconsider...warned her that she was being compelled by dark forces...that she was squandering her entire life based on paranoia alone, but she savagely blotted it out. She would not be deterred by trickery.

Elizabeth had been firmly established in her mind as a scheming villainess and nothing would deter Contayza from taking measures to protect her unborn daughter.

The drive to the airport was a feverish nightmare ride for Contayza Simpson. Every vehicle seemed to contain a twisted, malign version of Elizabeth Simpson's lovely face...grotesque masks which glared at Tayza with undisguised hunger. Along with these came the incessant and maddening whispers. A million discordant voices seemed to fill the vehicle and by the time Tayza pulled into the new JFK terminal, she found herself tottering on the brink of madness. She burst from her car like a drowning woman breaking the surface of a deep lake. Locking her car, Tayza first checked her keys with airport security. The thought of abandoning her car in such a fashion normally would have set her to quivering, but suddenly material possessions held little value for her.

Next came the ticket booth, where after twenty minutes of complex and infuriating wrangling, the agent managed to schedule a flight for Contayza with a stop in Chicago and another in LA. This done, she came to the task of placing two difficult phone calls.

First, she called her school director, informing him that her mother-in-law was gravely ill and she would be accompanying her husband to Seattle. No, she didn't know how long she would be gone. The director reluctantly agreed to grant her a limited sabbatical, though he did nothing to hide the extent of his displeasure. In truth, she found herself indifferent to his anger, suspecting that this job could well be part of her old life to which she might well never return.

The next call was perhaps the most difficult she had ever made in her life. Glancing down at her watch, she was relieved to see that Nath was not scheduled to arrive home for another thirty minutes by which time she would be in the air to Chicago.

Part of her felt craven for not speaking to him directly, but she feared that he might somehow persuade her to renege. Another part of her would have preferred not to call him until she reached the west coast. That would have been too cruel and cowardly, so she settled for the compromise.

Dialing the home number, she left a long message for her husband, promising that she would be safe and would return as quickly as possible. By the time she'd hung up, her voice was tremulous with emotion and her sooty lashes were glistening with tears. She regained her composure by conjuring a mental image of her tormentor. As anger displaced sadness, Contayza hurried to catch her flight.

3

The telephone was braying its strident buzz from somewhere within the darkened house. Nath stood on the doorstep, fumbling for his house keys and praying that the telephone would keep ringing just a little longer.

He was mildly surprised to find that Contayza had not yet returned from school. Surprised quickly turned to a solid stab of fear as he entered the darkened house which exuded a strong sense of abandonment. In that unexpected moment, he suddenly found it difficult to believe that he had actually built a life here because his home made him feel as though he'd wandered into alien terrain...a place neither familiar nor welcoming.

The phone was still ringing with that augmented sense of urgency that drove him across the floor without even bothering to close the door. In his haste, he never noticed that shadow that fell across the open doorway.

Snatching up the receiver, he breathed, "Hello?"

"Nathaniel? I was afraid that you weren't home." The voice, low and melodious, belonged to Elizabeth and Nath felt his anxiety momentarily dissipate as his mind summoned her image into focus. "I've tried several times today and there's been no answer."

"It's a working day, mother," Nath pointed out gently. Elizabeth laughed and her tension was palpable even though the pair was separated by three thousand miles.

"Of course...how silly of me."

"Where are you?"

After a moment's hesitation, she revealed, "Semelar."

"Good God, Why?" Nath exclaimed, horrified by the thought that his mother had actually returned to the place where her life had been destroyed.

"If I'm to have any chance of finding David, I must start at the beginning...at the very point where he disappeared," she explained, not bothering to add that her plan entailed going to the old mansion and attempting to contact the demon that Nath had risked everything to destroy.

"I promised that I would keep in touch," she elaborated. "I don't want another five years to pass before we see each other again."

"Mom...I've heard the most incredible story," he suddenly blurted and then went on to recount the newscast of the previous day. "They said that you were traveling with a daughter?"

There was a protracted silence from the other end, but finally Nath heard Elizabeth fetch a deep sigh fraught with weariness. "In Colorado, I was attacked by what would best be described as sub-demons...drones. They slaughtered the hotel owner and then attempted to destroy me. They failed miserably, but the reprisals for Cynara's death have begun...just as I always dreaded they would. I assume you know about the massacre that took place in Vermont?"

Nath allowed that he did. The appalling details had flooded the airwaves ever since and it seemed that the repercussions were still being felt across the country. "I don't understand what it could possibly mean. Yesterday, that religious lunatic, Ingram, appeared on television and called for mass acts of civil disobedience."

"I'm not surprised," Elizabeth remarked. "I'm certain that all of this relates to me, though I can't figure out for the life of me how this scheme is meant to unfold or why it's so elaborate. Whoever is engineering this sick drama seems to want open and bloody warfare between the Wiccans and the Zealots. Again, I'm being held up as a figurehead for both factions."

Elizabeth lapsed into a thoughtful silence and Nath realized, intentionally or not, she had evaded the one point that had consumed Contayza. "About the daughter?"

"Ah yes, I imagine that might have given you a bit of a start. The girl's name is Cassandra Jasic. She's a teenage runaway who I came across hitchhiking through Montana."

Immediately, warning sirens blared in Nath's mind. "Can she be trusted? I mean, is it not possible that she's more than a simple runaway?"

Elizabeth responded with a light laughter. "Ah yes...Cassie is so much more than a simple runaway. Can she be trusted? She did try to kill me."

Again, she laughed at Nath's horrified reaction and briefly explained some of what had transpired between the two women. Nath absorbed the story in silence and then asked, "Is it safe that she travels with you? I mean, whoever tried to kill you in Colorado is bound to try again."

Now Elizabeth's tone became serious and rife with steely determination. "The most dangerous thing that could happen to Cassie would be abandonment. I can protect Cassie. Quite frankly, it's you that I'm concern about."

"I'm fine, mother," Nath assured her, though reflecting upon Contayza's recent behavior, he was not so sure.

"I left because I sensed that my presence caused a measure of discomfort for Contayza, but I also left because I feared that my proximity might endanger your family. Upon consideration, I see that my enemies might harm you out of simple spite. I want you to be extremely vigilant. I sense that things are rapidly approaching a climax and there is no predicting what form or direction the final assault might take. I have to go now, Nath, but I want you to promise me that you'll be extremely careful."

"I will," he vowed, experiencing the sinking sensation that always accompanied their moments of parting.

"Nath, there's one last thing...I left something in the solarium. It was an impulsive and perhaps foolish thing to do, but I wanted desperately to leave you with a token. It's buried in the left garden box and I would imagine you'll recognize it. In a way, it's a piece of my soul, Nath, and I want you to have it."

"When can I expect to hear from you again?"

"In a day or so...when I've decided where I must go from here."

They exchanged goodbyes and then she was gone, leaving him standing in his living room feeling isolated and sad.

' _I left something in the solarium_.' Abruptly, intense curiosity replaced sadness and he hurried into the solarium in search of the mystery item. In his excitement, it occurred to him that he must look like a small child at Christmas and found that he didn't care.

The solarium's garden boxes were constructed of wood and finished with ceramic tiles. Within, the rich brown soil was topped by strips of pink quartz and had yet to be topped with fall flowers.

Rolling up his sleeves, Nath began to sift through the soil until his fingers closed on a roll of soft material. Excitedly, he carefully drew the material pouch out of the soil and laid it on the edge of the garden box. He was surprised to find that his hands were shaking badly and it required several attempts before he was able to untie the knot that secured the roll.

Unfurling the cloth on a glass end table, Simpson groaned and staggered backwards, his mind assailed by a score of nightmarish memories from his time in the wilds of Romania. He saw himself, exhausted and ravaged by illness, traipsing alone through the Carpathians, searching for exactly such an object.

On the table before him, bejeweled and elegantly lethal, was his mother's ritual dagger of turning. Its emeralds glistened magnificently in the afternoon light. For a moment, he found himself incapable of movement, so profoundly was he shaken. He could only stare at the dagger and struggle to regain his composure.

' _In a way, it's a piece of my soul_.' Elizabeth had said this and indeed it did constitute a tangible representation of what she had become. More than this, the dagger was the one instrument by which she could be destroyed. A deluge of questions came to him then, foremost of which was the reason she had entrusted him with this responsibility. Finally, he concluded that for a creature such as Elizabeth, there could be no greater gesture of love and trust.

Tentatively, he picked it up and turned it over in his hands.

From the other room there came a subtle, almost furtive sound and Nath first thought that his wife had returned home. Then the distinctive beep of the answering machine filled the downstairs and Contayza's recorded voice filled issued forth from the gloom.

Still clutching the dagger, Nathaniel hurried into the living room, heart clamoring in his chest. Switching on the light, he gazed about for some sign of who had activated the machine.

The room was empty.

Suddenly the content of Contayza's message filtered through Nath's disquiet. Hurrying to the phone console, he punched replay and listened to the message from the start.

"Nathaniel, I imagine that you're wondering where I've gotten to by now," she laughed, her voice decidedly shaky. "I'm calling because I couldn't find the courage to tell you this face to face. I have to leave for awhile, though not because I'm unhappy. On the contrary...this has been the happiest period of my life and the prospect of having your child...our child, has left me delirious."

"And yet, we're in danger of losing everything we hold sacred. The woman who returned to your life is not your mother, Nathaniel. If you could be totally candid, I'm certain that even you could admit as much. I fear that your ability to assess things impartially has been occluded by a love that borders on awe."

"I see this, Nathaniel, and it hurts my heart. You're not equipped to deal with the threat that your mother poses to our family and so the task of protecting us falls to me. I'll be brutally blunt...your mother wants our daughter in exchange for finding her lost lover. I would rather die than permit that to happen and so I've gone to find her. When I do, it is my intention to kill her or she will have to kill me because she will never have my child while I'm alive."

"Please don't try to follow me or stop me. Instead, try to search for the truth in what I've said. When I return, we can pick up the threads of our old life, free of this looming darkness."

The line went dead and the recorder beep to indicate that the end of the message had been reached. Nath simply stood in the center of the room, staring at the telephone, with the knife forgotten in his right hand. Slowly, he closed his eyes and shook his head, the sheer incredulity of what he had just heard rendering him immobile and mute. What conspiracy of madness could devise a scheme in which a wife would set forth to kill her mother-in-law with an unborn child hanging in the balance.

Nath's gaze shifted to the forgotten dagger and a shiver traversed the length of his spine. Elizabeth had imparted the dagger to her son as a token of love and trust. What a perverse twist of irony it would have been had Contayza located the dagger first. The dire notion of their eventual conflict broke his paralysis. The vivid memory of that final night in Chevru bloomed in his mind like a dark rose. Contayza had unleashed her immutable fury upon Cynara, and though frightening and impressive in their magnitude, ultimately her powers had proven inadequate. He could clearly envision Contayza attacking Elizabeth with equal fury. How long would Elizabeth suppress the urge to strike before finally retaliating? What then? He stood to lose both his wife and his daughter over Contayza's mad delusion.

' _But is it really Contayza's delusion_?' The question exploded in mind. The voice was so achingly familiar that he nearly began to cry. It had been over five years since he last heard the voice of his adoptive brother, Jimmy Simms.

The question posed was one of perfect and irrefutable logic. Indeed, had Tayza not acted as thought she was under some bizarre spell over the last few weeks? His wife was exceptionally strong-willed, but could she be susceptibly to powerful suggestion, especially if she was predisposed to believe it anyway?

Accepting that the notion was at least possible, how had the suggestion been inculcated in her mind? Nath concluded that it didn't really matter? His entire world was on the brink of disaster and he had to intervene before it was too late.

From the corner of his eyes, Nath detected the subtle hint of movement, sly and liquid in the fading afternoon light. He was turning to face its source, when something crashed down upon the left side of his face like the fall of a hammer. Nath stumbled backwards, his arm pin wheeling in a desperate struggle for balance, and crashed down atop the telephone table, which shattered into a million bits of twinkling glass.

Nath landed heavily on his side as the air rushed out of his lungs. Elizabeth's emerald dagger clattered across the ceramic tiles. Nath attempted to rise, but his shoulder screamed in protest and he collapsed amongst the shards of broken glass and twisted brass.

Disoriented, he rolled over and gazed up at his assailant. The man stood over him, a smile playing at his lips and a malicious gleam dancing in his ice blue eyes. He was huge with a cruelly chiseled and angular face that hinted at a love of violent mayhem. Simpson knew that his mother's admonition had come to be.

"Looks like I'm not the only one who wants to find dear old mom," Jurgen Gerchnau intoned with a guttural laugh. Then he bent down toward the fallen man.

4

Elizabeth replaced the antiquated handset in its cradle and gazed pensively out into the darkening sky. A storm was threatening to sail in from the Pacific, evoking the inevitable comparison of this night with the final night of her mortal life.

Dark was fast approaching and it would soon be time to leave. Nath had sounded different tonight...tense, and Elizabeth felt a worm of anxiety stirring in the pit of her stomach. Why had she abandoned her ceremonial dagger? The question posed an open invitation into a complex emotional labyrinth that she did not have time to enter. Surrendering the dagger had been a symbolic act of trust...an essential and concrete validation of her continuing humanity. No true demon would ever have been capable of such a bold gesture. Accepting such a position of vulnerability would have been well beyond Cynara's sensibilities. The fear of slipping back into what she had been before that fateful night in Chevru dogged Elizabeth constantly and thus she required of herself actions that reaffirmed her essential humanity.

' _A sad and self-serving lie_ ,' a familiar voice whispered softly in her mind, causing Simpson to flinch. The voice was clearly Cynara's though it had remained stubbornly silent over the past five years. Elizabeth shook her head in negation.

' _Deny it if you will_ ,' the voice persisted disdainfully, ' _but I know you more intimately than you know yourself_.'

Elizabeth closed her eyes and rested her head on the refreshingly cool window pane, wondering if this place bestowed Cynara with heightened power.

' _Suicide!_ ' The word reverberated in the Chamber's of Elizabeth's skull like a tempest. Simpson shuddered and turned away from the window, whispering fiercely, "Never!"

' _Your vehemence only proves my point_ ,' the Baroness retorted. ' _You did not abandon the dagger as a regal tribute to your humanity. I'm surprised that such a self-proclaimed pragmatist would be capable of such self-deception_.' Elizabeth said nothing to contradict the tormenting voice.

' _You left the dagger with the whelp because you're afraid of your reaction should it turn out that your precious David Stillman is no longer amongst the living. Could you clearly see yourself driving that dagger deep between those luscious breasts?_ '

"Shut up, damn you!" Elizabeth cried, just as Cassie opened the suite door. Elizabeth tensed, her cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

The girl smiled tentatively, "Who were you talking to?"

"Ghosts, Cassie. Ghosts," Elizabeth laughed dismissively. "How was the walk?"

"Creepy."

"Really...how so?"

The girl shrugged noncommittally. "It's not easy to describe, but it's like the town has no soul. The people look like bit actors on a Hollywood sound stage. I half expected that someone would call time and everyone would drift off for the night."

Elizabeth nodded tightly, again impressed by how astute the girl's observations seemed to be. "Apparently, there was a great flood and gas explosion on the night of my transformation in to a demon, it destroyed a good portion of the town and its people. Semelar never recovered."

"I don't think I'd want to live here in Semelar," Cassie remarked gravely and shuddered.

"Neither would I, Cassie, but it is the place to begin my search in earnest. We won't have to spend more than a day here if things evolve as I hope they will," Elizabeth explained.

Cassie nodded with obvious relief and not for the first time, Elizabeth wondered if Cassie Jasic might be better off as far away from her as possible. "Cassandra, I want you to listen to me now. There is something that I have to do tonight and you can't come with me."

"Something dangerous," the girl murmured.

Simpson frowned. "Not physically dangerous. There are certain obscure risks involved in what I have to do, but they are purely psychological."

Elizabeth paused, allowing the girl to digest the lie. She detested lying to the girl who had been damaged by breeches of trust too numerous to count, but did not want to disrupt the fragile air of calm that Cassie had acquired. Crossing over to the closet, Elizabeth took down a white suitcase and flipped it onto the bed. From its interior, she withdrew a manila envelope and returned to the room's small writing desk, where she beckoned for the girl to join her.

Snatching up the hotel's letter opener, she deftly slit the envelope and slid the contents onto the glass blotter. Cassie watched her, absorbed by the beautiful woman's elegance and grace. It was difficult to reconcile this image with that of the ruthless killer who had dispatched the drones back in that Colorado motel.

Purposefully, Elizabeth laid out a series of small envelopes and then turned her attention to Cassandra. The girl gazed at the immortal questioningly. "What's all of this?"

"This is a contingency," Elizabeth replied evenly. "If I'm not back within thirty-six hours, these envelopes will give you the security to have whatever life you desire."

"I...I don't understand?" Cassandra faltered, suddenly terrified of the prospect of drifting back to solitude.

"My mistress...her name was Cynara, was a particularly shrewd woman. When she died, I inherited her considerable wealth. These envelopes contain a small portion of that wealth, but there is a sufficient amount to maintain an opulent lifestyle for several mortal lifespans."

Overwhelmed by emotion, Cassie began to cry then and Elizabeth rose rapidly and enfolded the girl in her arms. "Is this really necessary? We could leave...we could run from whoever is hunting you. Running is not so bad once you get use to it."

Elizabeth held the girl out at arms length. "I have no liberty in this matter, Cassie. This is something I simply have to do. I'll do everything within my power to come back. When this is over, I vow to give you everything that your parents stole from you...if you'll let me."

The girl bowed her head and accepted this with a grim nod. Elizabeth gave the girl one final hug of assurance and then started towards the door. Cassie suddenly gripped Elizabeth's wrist and spun her about. Then, she kissed the immortal passionately on the mouth as her hands glided softly into the blonde hair at the base of Elizabeth's neck. After a moment, Cassie stepped back and regarded Elizabeth shyly. The older woman frowned slightly, her pulse racing. "Why did you do that, Cassie?"

"I wanted to give you something...some token of luck. I guess it's the only thing of value I have to give."

Now it was Elizabeth's turn to be overwhelmed by emotion. Turning back to the door, she managed thickly, "Thank you."

Pausing, she instructed, "Remember, if I don't return, take the contents of those envelopes and get out of this town. Use the money wisely and try to build a beautiful world for yourself."

Thickly, the girl asked, "What's to prevent me from taking them anyway?"

Elizabeth pivoted about and offered the girl a radiant smile. "That kiss!"

Then she was gone. Cassie threw herself on the bed and sighed, feeling that her life had been swept up in an intoxicating tempest. She glanced over at the writing table, where the security envelopes lay waiting and that tempest abruptly gave way to a fear that it might soon all end.

Elizabeth descended to street level and exited the hotel via the rear parking area which was dimly lit and all but deserted. Leaving the girl troubled Elizabeth and that anxiety was not without its own worrisome ramifications. What stood before her would require her undivided attention. Still, she could not deny that the girl's kiss had been delightful and electrifying...shaking her body to its very foundations. She had last experienced that intensity of electric sensation in this very town many years before in the arms of the very demon she was now planning to confront.

Simpson shook her head in consternation and gazed up at the heavens which were alive with the galactic play of a million constellations. From the west, high clouds scudded across the sky, driven by a wind that seemed completely aloof from the small dramas of the world below.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and drew a deep breath in an attempt to muster her courage and then started towards her jaguar. Twenty feet from the car, she realized that someone was standing in the shadows on the opposite side of the vehicle.

Immediately, her posture became battle ready and an orange effulgence sparked to life in her eyes. In a glacial voice fraught with menace, she demanded, "Is there something I can help you with?"

The man slowly emerged from the shadow, running his left hand over the sleek flank of the Jag as he came around the front of the vehicle. Elizabeth tracked his approach with blazing eyes, lithely pivoting in anticipation of his attack.

The man stepped into the yellow arc of the sodium lights and Elizabeth was afforded her first real glimpse of his face. At once, some of the tension eased from her body. The tousled blond hair, the placid blue eyes and smooth golden skin...even the faded leather jacket; all of these things conveyed and impression of harmlessness.

"Retract your claws, sister. I mean you no harm," he murmured softly, his voice kind and lulling, like the gentle lapping of waves on a beach shore.

The orange light drained from her eyes as she stepped to her car and inserted the key into the lock. "If it's the car you wished to look at, now you've seen it, so I suggested you move on. Skulking about the parking lot after dark could give someone the wrong impression."

"It's you that I've come to speak with, Elizabeth Simpson," the man replied pleasantly.

Slowly, Elizabeth straightened and returned her attention to the stranger. At once, her eyes widened and then narrowed into speculative slits. In her preoccupation with what awaited her, she had failed to deduce just exactly what this extraordinary creature was. "Can it...can it truly be?"

"Indeed," the man confirmed with a humble bow. "I am what you perceive me to be."

"An angel," Elizabeth murmured in a voice fraught with astonishment and awe.

"Why so surprised," the man inquired mildly. "If a miscreant such as Cynara can exist, does it not fall that her antithesis would as well? The universe is a place of precise order and balance."

Fascinated, Elizabeth ventured closer, her plans momentarily forgotten. "Yet, there is no sign of your work in the world, while Cynara's ilk leaves their trademarks everywhere like an indelible stain."

"Ah, I do detect just a glint of bitter cynicism," the angel commented with a grin. "We are honor-bound by ancient oaths not to interfere in the affairs of men. The other side has no such compunction."

"In the face of all the atrocity and horror, I hope you're not offended if I tell you that your explanation is decidedly lame," Elizabeth retorted, her tone openly caustic.

The angel shrugged, "Life is a test and in terms of eternity, less than the blink of an eye. The hardships of life pale in comparison to the nothingness that awaits the wicked.

"Again, forgive me if I'm less than totally convinced," Simpson remarked, wondering about the source of her sudden acrimony.

The angel offered her a placating smile and raised his hands. "Your bitterness only confirms your essential humanity. I've not come to discuss philosophy."

"Then why have you come?" she demanded brusquely.

He stepped closed and glanced back at the hotel, which was stepped in dreary silence. "Since she first descended into the pit of darkness, I have monitored your former mistress, occasionally intervening when her more rash actions threatened to tear the ancient covenant asunder."

Nonplussed, Simpson could only gape at the angel for several moments. Eventually, she regained enough composure to ask, "You mean to say that you stood by and allowed her to butcher unabated?"

"Again, yes," he responded simply. "I watched as she corrupted your soul and attempted to lead you along the same iniquitous road she traveled."

Suddenly, Elizabeth began to tremble violently, her voice become shrill with pain and outrage. "You mean to say that all of the grief and misery of the past twenty-five years could have been prevented?"

Elizabeth felt sick and utterly furious. Sensing the extent of her misery, the angel shook his head sadly. "Watching you succumb to the demon was possibly the most difficult tragedy of all. You lived your mortal life on the very edge of spiritual perfection. Still, it I may be brutally candid, it was you who willingly surrendered to her temptation...as did all the others who fell victim to her corrupting evil. Thus, I had no grounds to intervene. Once the soul has been corrupted, destruction of the physical body is inconsequential."

Simpson considered this for a moment and then nodded grudgingly. From the eternal perspective, the body did seem less important...a mere vessel. In truth, she had been thoroughly seduced by Cynara...had capitulated to the other woman's irresistible charm willingly and thus had engineered her own dissolution. It was convenient to deflect the entire burden of blame onto Saravic.

"Was Cynara ever aware of your presence?" Elizabeth inquired.

"When it suited me," he replied. "My last actual conversation with Cynara took place in Bucharest, not long before her...end. I attempted to persuade her that she should allow you to go free. Not surprisingly, she was intractable."

Simpson pondered this for several moments and then repeated her initial question, "Why have you come?"

Again, he averted his eyes to the hotel. She followed his gaze and her pulse began to thunder in her temple. "Not Cassie?"

The whisper had been fraught with intense anguish and the angel spoke quickly to allay her concern. "No harm will come to the girl, but she is part of why I have chosen to reveal myself to you now. She is a precious jewel ravaged by the ugliest aspects of this wretched world. She is the quintessential victim, but she has found a guardian angel to pull her back from the abyss."

"She's an extraordinary, beautiful young woman who has suffered far too much," Simpson agreed.

Now a subtle shift overcame the angel's countenance...a pinching of the eyes that hinted at personal anguish. "Elizabeth, you've come to a juncture and I fear that you are gazing along a path that leads down into the pits of hell."

"I don't know what you mean?" she responded in a guarded tone.

"Along one path lies a future in which you can guide and polish the jewel you have discovered. The other is a decline...twisting back into the complex labyrinth of the past. I fear who might emerge should you venture in."

Confused, Elizabeth turned away and the angel came forward and gently placed his hand on her shoulder. "Guilt can be a destructive force...one that can occlude all reason. David Stillman has been lost to you, but in his stead, you have been sent Cassandra Jasic. I implore you to recognize your good fortune."

She turned to him with tears glistening in her eyes. "I have to know what's happened to David."

"The demon is dangerous still," the angel admonished. "She is subtle in her manipulation. You risk corruption a second time."

"I am stronger than Cynara."

The angel merely watched her as his eyes beamed a sad contradiction. "You cannot begin to grasp what it is you risk."

"I have no choice," she rasped in a voice made raw with anguish. This said, she stiffened and challenged, "If you have no intention of trying to stop me, then please let me do what I must."

The angel offered her a slight bow and then stepped away. "Take great care Elizabeth Simpson. You are a rare, indeed unprecedented creature."

Unable to conjure an appropriate response, Simpson merely walked to her car and drove off. The angel, hands in pockets, watched her glumly, fearing that an old adversary was about to be reborn.

Chapter Seventeen

1

Rain had come to Los Angeles, pouring out of the normally arid September sky in a seemingly endless deluge. Karnalla Mansley lay sprawled upon a faded sofa, staring blandly at the television. The sound had been muted, but the frightening images of widespread violence and evil required no explanation.

The country was rapidly losing the cohesive bond that had so tentatively held it together over the last forty years.

In Atlanta, federal agents had been killed while trying to execute a search and arrest warrant against Gregor Ingram in connection with the carnage in Vermont. Ingram and his inner circle had fled and were now the focus of a nation-wide manhunt.

In the wake of this development, federal agents had fallen victim to terrorist style attacks all through the country and the frenzied pace of the chaos had only accelerated.

Karnalla watched all of this unfold with glazed indifference.

It had been nearly a week since she had willingly forfeited the notoriety of her past lifestyle. Since then, she had remained cloistered in the house on the southern edge of Los Angeles. She had ventured out only when absolutely necessary and had returned home in a frenzy that had bordered on outright panic.

What if she'd been wrong...or simply deceived by the conviction of her own grief and self-loathing? How badly did she want redemption? She recalled the night that the blond vision had come to her with the promise of absolution. She remembered how the lethal edge of the straigh razor had gleamed fetchingly in the muted yellow glow.

Watching a tiny occult item store burst into raging flames, she sighed wearily. The image of her beloved Orienne wanted to impose itself on her thoughts, but she savagely forced it away with a wretched sob. The exquisite countenance of her dead lover was a clear and undeniable invitation to suicide.

"Please come!" she begged of the silence in a voice torn with raw anguish. How much longer would she sustain her hope in the face of such torment? Turning toward the wall, she curled into a tight ball and began to rock herself slowly.

2

A continent away, Nathaniel Simpson found himself tied in a wooden chair with his chin lolling listlessly against his chest. His face was grotesquely swollen and his body was wracked with throbbing agony.

The house was utterly silent save for the monotonous, infuriating drip of the kitchen faucet.

Ping. Ping. Ping. The sound reverberated in the chambers of Nath's skull, amplifying his suffering.

Jurgen Gerchnau leaned casually against the kitchen counter, his eyes and face inscrutable in the inadequate light. He turned the beautiful, jeweled dagger over and over in his hands. The little man had thus far displayed a surprisingly large capacity for pain...something that Jurgen had not anticipated in such a slack, lethargic culture. In the short time he had been in America, the German had concluded that its people were generally weak-willed and indolent. The only segment of the population that seemed focused and intense was the hoodlums that had overrun many of the inner city areas.

If Boston was typical of the rest of the country, Jurgen wondered how it was possible that America was the world's mightiest nation. The mystery had perplexed Jurgen until he had begun to question Nathaniel. Then, he had discovered a core of determination and courage...an indomitable spirit that was not immediately visible.

Raising an eyebrow, Jurgen pushed himself away from the counter and came to stand directly behind Simpson, who did not raise his head in response to the big man's approach.

Nath steeled himself for what was to follow. There was something unsettlingly familiar about this terrible man. This familiarity did not find its roots in his face for Nath could not recall ever seeing such a frightening countenance. No, the familiarity found its origins in the aura of lethal and merciless competence the man exuded.

"I know you," he murmured, dizzying with the effort of speaking.

"Do you now, Gunner?" the German quipped, his tone of voice almost kind.

"You were in Romania...in the mountains."

"Again, very astute. I engineered the ambush that deprived the miserable gypsies of their lives. I personally killed your wife's brother. How does that make you feel, friend?"

Nath remained silent. Jurgen grabbed a fist full of hair and jerked Nath's head to face him. "Now that we've gotten acquainted, let's get back to the business at hand. Listen carefully...I want to know where the demon has gone and exactly what this is."

"I don't know where she is," Nath rasped defiantly. "As to what that is...I would think it would be fairly obvious."

The massive German laughed, a grating sound that closely resembled broken glass being dragged over concrete. "You've still managed to retain a sense of humor? Very good. It's been my personal experience that humor is a necessary requisite to surviving personal ordeal."

Nath stole furtive glances at the German, who crossed the kitchen and began to rummage through the chest of drawers, upending the contents of each onto the kitchen floor.

Simpson tugged experimentally at the bonds that held him to the kitchen chair, but immediately realized that the clever German had devised a knot that only tightened with resistance. He abruptly stopped struggling and the bonds loosened ever so slightly.

Finally, the German located what he needed. "How about a little amusing diversion before we begin? Watch this."

Warily, Nath raised his head. Gerchnau extended his right arm with the palm open and facing down. An expression of intense concentration fell across his features and in the next instant, a thin Japanese knife leapt from the jangled clutter and slapped gently into his palm.

He fixed Simpson with a predator's grin. "It's a rather ironic twist of fate that has brought us together again, my friend," he declared, happy to see the naked apprehension in Simpson's eyes despite the little man's best effort to conceal it. "Of course, you're familiar with a man named Petru. He freed me from a Romanian prison so that I might kill Cynara Saravic. As it turned out, Petru met with a most explosive end at the hands of your tempestuous wife long before I had the opportunity to kill Saravic."

"As it also turned out, your mother accomplished the feat before I was able to make the attempt. This was good fortune for my part as I had not real notion what I was being sent up against. In a way, your mother's preemptive action probably saved my life." Jurgen chuckled. "The dark irony may be found in the fact the Cynara's masters have turned to me to sanction the demon killer. How appalling that must seem to you, but gratitude was never my strong point."

Nath regarded the German with an unnerving expression of pity. "You have no concept of what it is you're dealing with."

"Oh, but I do," Gerchnau disagreed amicably. "I've prepared studiously, acquiring an arsenal of special skills along the way."

Despite his pain, Nath mustered a disdainful laugh. "Elizabeth will tear you limb from limb. Your skills are meaningless because she's impervious to anything you might do. When Contayza confronted Cynara, she literally brought the house down on the demon. Yet, Cynara remained unscathed and would have killed Contayza with a casual flick of her wrist had Elizabeth not intervened. Elizabeth is far more powerful than Cynara ever was."

Jurgen glared down at his captive, but Nath thought that he could discern a glimmer of doubt in the arctic blue eyes. Then Gerchnau smiled and brandished the knife. "You're going to cooperate, Nathaniel Simpson. I can assure you of that. I have no real desire to kill you, nor do I wish to harm your precious Gypsy queen, but I will destroy anything that attempts to interfere in my search for Elizabeth."

"Go to hell," Nath croaked. Gerchnau laid back his head and laughed, "I've already been there, boy."

Then he raised the knife and tested it along the pad of his thumb. Satisfied, he crossed back over to Simpson and ripped the tattered shirt from his back. "You're a formidable man, gunner, but courage can only carry you so far. Only death can bring an end to suffering, but I'm a master of prolonging life in these circumstances. It is said that my ancestors...the Saxons...it is said that their women could skin prisoners completely, while keeping them alive and aware the entire time."

Slowly, deliberately, he placed the tip of the knife into the hollow just beneath Nath's shoulder. Then he pressed forward and drew the knife vertically towards the floor, leaving a three inch slash from which blood ran like a river.

"ELIZABETH...Unless my spelling is drastically incorrect, that would be comprised of nine letters...or twenty four knife strokes. Seeing how you love her unequivocally, I'm going to carve her name into your chest."

Nath gave no reaction other than a clenching of muscles at the angle of his jaws. As the German set about his work, he began to whistle tunelessly.

The pair was half way through the second E when Simpson could endure no more.

3

Elizabeth was more disconcerted than she had betrayed as she drove away from the hotel parking lot. The angel's dramatic appearance and grave admonition had profoundly shaken her but she pushed it from her mind. With considerable effort, she held it at bay as she drove out of Semelar, refusing to be deterred or distracted.

After all these years, she was too close to her objective to allow fear of consequences to force her to relent. Elizabeth was confident that she could control the flow of the events that were to follow.

Rothman road was dark, forbidding and deserted as Elizabeth converged upon this latest crossroad in her destiny. Simpson recalled that the Victoria mansion had been the only standing structure along this length of roadway that wound aimlessly into the forest and abruptly terminated with no more logic than its meandering course. Despite her best efforts to remain calm, Simpson found that she could not master her mounting anxiety.

Finally, the hulking silhouette of the mansion appeared on the right, grotesquely ugly in the fall darkness. As if to supply the appropriate ambiance for the dark business at hands, a gentle rain began to fall. Elizabeth drove past the main entrance to the grounds, observing that the entire property had been surrounded and effectively sealed by a chain link fence topped by three intimidating strands of razor wire. The gleam of the fence announced that it was a relatively recent development. The fence was not without its troubling ramifications.

About one hundred yards past the northern extreme of the property Elizabeth came across a tiny pull off. She steered the car along the narrow roadway until it was no longer visible from Rothman road. Elizabeth keyed down the engine and sat in the darkness, attempting to gather herself in anticipation of the ordeal to come. It was impossible to predict what form her confrontation with Cynara might take...like vapor and smoke, its patterns would be dictated by unseen currents over which she would have no real authority.

Knowing that she would never completely subjugate her anxiety, she gathered her long blond hair and tucked it into the back of her black jacket. With a tremulous breath, she opened the car door and climbed out into the cold September rain.

Sprinting back through the leaf-strewn gravel, Elizabeth crossed Rothman road at a dead run. As she neared the fence, she slowed her pace, searching for a terminal section of chain link. Despite the near total darkness, Elizabeth's preternatural night vision allowed her to find what she needed. Linking her fingers into the wire, she tugged vigorously and the restraining pins popped with an ugly metallic screech. Effortlessly, she peeled back a three foot section of fence and ducked inside.

The once manicured lawn had become an untended tangle of weeds. Slowly, Elizabeth picked her way across the courtyard, most of the bricks of which had been scavenged by the locals. Before the house, she stood and gazed up at the decrepit hulk of what had once been one of the state's most magnificent pieces of real estate. Suddenly, she experienced a bizarre moment of disconnection...a stepping out of the present reality to a time a quarter century gone.

Now the mansion was restored to its former majesty and not the rotting repository of evil it would eventually become. And there stood Elizabeth, a statuesque, beautiful and admittedly ingenuous woman caught fully in the thrall of its magnificence. Beside her stood the only man she had ever loved...a reassuring presence who lent her the confidence to venture inside and mingle with the town's elite.

Naive and young, Elizabeth had entered, totally unprepared and incapable of standing before the lethal pulchritude of the exotic creature within. The angel had stated that she had been seduced, not compelled by brute force and that was incontrovertibly true. Now, as the rain streamed down her exquisite face, Simpson understood just how masterfully she had been beguiled by Cynara Saravic...how she had been separated from reason by an allure that precluded all logic.

She mounted the crumbling steps of the mansion and came to stand under the ornate masonry canopy that protected the exterior landing. The county had erected a plywood barrier to replace the broken double doors. Stenciled across the plywood was a warning to stay out by order of the director of public works.

Simpson regarded the inch think plywood with a measure of disdain. Still, she made no move to enter. It suddenly seemed critically important that she comprehend the mechanics of her seduction. In retrospect, she had been young and hopelessly naive, but within her spirit there burned the consuming need to be more than a small town beauty. Cynara seemed to embody everything that Elizabeth admired in women; exotic beauty complimented by a formidable intellect, genuine power and wealth. Beyond even these traits, Saravic possessed an erudite manner and an unflappable composure. A young Elizabeth could not help but fall under her carefully woven spell.

Now, in her new incarnation of immortality, Elizabeth could easily penetrate the veil of Cynara's illusory façade. Cynara was inherently evil and no veneer, however carefully conceived, could hide that truth from Elizabeth's incisive gaze. No, Elizabeth had nothing to fear from this ephemeral Cynara who had been stripped of her illusions and power.

"Through the front door then," Elizabeth murmured with a cavalier grin that she did not actually feel, and then lashed out at the plywood barrier with her right foot. The wood exploded into a thousand splinters and there stood the lightless opening, beckoning like a gaping maw. With the feigned gunslinger's grin playing at her sensuous lips, Elizabeth Simpson strode into the waiting darkness.

4

If the exterior of the mansion was decrepit, the interior could only be described as cancerous. It appeared as if someone had commenced the process of demolition one moldering piece at a time, but had grown bored with the task and abandoned it to the ravages of time. The ceiling was partially collapsed in the main entrance. The winding staircase had been divested of its mahogany railings and balustrades and had partially separated from the wall. If one was to attempt to climb that staircase, Elizabeth surmised, they might well be greeted by a sickening crunch and a headlong tumble onto the dirty marble floor.

Carefully, Simpson picked her way across the debris-strewn floor. The air was ripe with a hundred different pungent odors of rot. Beneath this cloying smell, her nostrils flared in response to the subtle stench of lingering evil. It was faint, yet pervasive and Simpson could understand how this house had become a crumbling derelict. Any human who inhabited this tainted dwelling would be constantly assailed by icy, unnerving shivers...echoes of past evils that lived on within its walls. Worse still, if this human inhabitant possessed even a modicum of extrasensory perception, they would be subject to brief flickers and terrifying images of past evils committed beneath its roof.

She recalled Nath and Jimmy's encounter with the caretaker...an encounter which both had been fortunate to survive. This once majestic house had become a repository for every act of evil, inane or contrived, that had ever occurred within its walls.

Yet, even in this dreary atmosphere of fetid decay, Elizabeth could not escape the disjointing of time as she picked her way through the detritus. The room was filled with the faint strains of orchestral music and the light banter of party conversation. How utterly glamorous and full of bright possibilities the world had seemed on that night all those years past. She had entered the house as if venturing into the mansions of heaven itself.

Elizabeth uttered a peel of self-deprecating laughter. From that night forth, she had eschewed everything good in her life and of her own volition, had completely surrendered to Cynara's dark promise.

After twenty-five years, she had come full circle to this moment of fraught closure. ' _Cynara was a path into darkness_ ,' the angel had insisted, but Elizabeth viewed the coming confrontation as a doorway to the future. Fetching a tremulous breath, she strode purposefully into the main drawing room where she had first come face to face with Cynara. The thick smell of human blood hung in the air like a miasma. In the absolute blackness, Simpson could see that the walls were awash with dried blood that had faded to a burnished orange.

She closed her eyes, briefly peering into the carnage that had devoured the unwitting teenagers on their night of thrill seeking. The county had been wise to enclose this place as its power was not waning with the passage of time. It would have been more prudent still to level the place as the structure was beyond salvage and the dark shades that terrorized its interior would never be evicted while it stood. Once she had obtained the information she required, Elizabeth resolved herself to destroying this mansion.

Deciding that she could delay no longer, Elizabeth crossed to the center of the room. Outside, she could vaguely hear the muffled sound of rain as it battered the plywood that had been nailed over the window openings.

With her right hand, Simpson made a stirring gesture. At once, the debris was swept up as though caught in the embrace of a whirlwind. Primly, she sat on the now bare floor boards and placed her palms on her knees. Then she allowed her chin to settle slowly to her chest as her eyes drifted shut.

In an instant, she found her consciousness reduced to a single point of emotion that was more pure perception than it was a tangible point of reality. Willing herself forward, she rocketed through the mysterious labyrinths of her immortal flesh, finally coming to her destination...a place she had loathed to ever enter. She paused for a moment, regarding the small mote that essentially encapsulated Cynara's prison.

Without further hesitation, she plunged in, penetrating the invisible barrier with an audible snap. Incredibly, she found her physical body restored, with her rain-soaked hair hanging limply in her face and her wet clothes clinging to the tight curves of her body.

Gazing about the unvarying, screaming monotony of Cynara's prison, Elizabeth shuddered, recalling her own incarceration in precisely such a place. A violent spasm wracked her body then as she was overwhelmed by the mournful isolation of this stark, parasitic existence. She stood at the center of a great plain of gray, sterile dirt. One need only glance at the earth to know that such sterile soil was incapable of sustaining life. Above her there churned a roiling sky that threatened a mighty storm. Personal experience informed her that the promised storm would never come. On the horizon there loomed the black, hulking silhouette of a massive mountain range. During her twenty years of exile, she had made it her personal goal to reach these mountains, but she had never succeeded.

In the thrall of her own bitter memories, Elizabeth was too distracted to notice the subtle stirring of earth behind her. Nor did she glimpse the leonine shape that was rapidly converging upon her.

Suddenly, she found herself being spun about. Powerful hands gripped the sides of her face like a vice as she stared into eyes that were as black and hard as glowing anthracite.

Cynara!

Saravic's face twisted into a fierce grin and she pulled Elizabeth into a rough embrace and a savage kiss. Elizabeth struggled in revulsion, finally throwing Cynara off with a gasp. Cynara stumbled and fell to the ground, where she knelt laughing hysterically.

Elizabeth watched her in wary silence. The woman who had been so obsessed, so fastidious about her appearance now resembled a life long bag lady. She was caked with dirt from head to toe and the tattered remnants of her clothes hung from her body in rags.

Suddenly, the angel's warning resolved into sharp focus. Danger hung in the air of this place like a palpable fog.

Cynara abruptly stopped laughing and sprang lithely to her feet. Elizabeth tensed expectantly and again Cynara uttered a mirthless chuckle. "Do I frighten you, Sweet Elizabeth? You always were such a fragile bird."

Elizabeth straightened. "You're wrong on both accounts!"

There was a snap of cold iron in Simpson's voice that caused Cynara's grin to falter. "Perhaps, but you've come to me just as I always knew you would." The dark lady glanced around the expanse of nothingness and now it was her turn to shiver. "When I chose exile over death, I had no notion of what exile actually entailed. The thought of an eternity here makes death far more appealing than I would have ever thought possible."

"The choice was yours."

"True, but forgive me if I don't seem eternally grateful. You did, in fact, betray me and still I spared your life when I had every right to take it."

Elizabeth pursed her lips. "I haven't come here to rehash the past or dredge up hellish memories of our life together."

Saravic's face reflected the stinging pain this last remark evoked. "Hellish? You were the one person I loved...even above myself, though I never could have believed that such a thing was possible." Summoning her dignity, she drew herself up to her full height, a hint of the old regal bearing returning with the gesture. "If you have not come to revel in our glorious past, then why have you come?"

"I think you know. Surely, you have some inkling of the emotions I experience in the world beyond?" Elizabeth inquired. Unexpectedly and despite her best efforts to prevent it, Elizabeth found herself pitying Cynara. She had been so darkly vital in her life and this place must indeed seem like living death.

"Perhaps I do," Cynara intoned warily, "but it would please me to hear if from those pliable lips."

"Still a masterful manipulator, eh Cynara?" Elizabeth challenged. Cynara merely raised her hands and shrugged in a gesture of helplessness. "David Stillman...I want to know what you did to him and if there might be any possibility that he is still alive."

Saravic grunted disdainfully as intense anger flashed in her dark eyes. "What if I was to tell you that I killed him...that I ripped off his worthless cock and stuffed it down his throat?"

"Then I would call you a liar...or I would believe you, in which case I would kill you as you serve no further purpose," Simpson disclosed flatly.

Cynara's eyes widened. "So my innocent little pet has grown fangs and claws."

"You confuse me with the drone that inhabited my body. Now, will you tell me about David?"

Cynara turned away dramatically, partly to hide the triumphant smile that had blossomed on her full lips. She could sense the extent of her former lover's desperation and wondered just how far she would be able to press her advantage. Proceeding delicately, she began, "I would think that Stillman would be the least of your concerns, given the present circumstances."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, knowing that Cynara was being deliberately evasive. "I warn you not to try my patience."

Saravic wheeled about, her eyes blazing furiously. "I'm tired of your threats. It's you who wants something of me. In itself, that demands some measure of respect...like the last time you came begging to make love to me like a fawning lapdog."

Elizabeth began to respond, but quickly clamped her mouth shut, knowing that Cynara was deliberately attempt to provoke an emotional response. Instead of retorting, she simply glared at Cynara and abruptly turned, walking briskly away from her former master.

"Ah, very good," Cynara called after her in a voice that quivered on the edge of hysteria. "Give me a show of hollow bravado. Let's be candid...you can no more walk away from me than I can let you go. If you've come to discuss you pathetic gelding, then let's do so."

Simpson stopped and slowly turned back to Saravic who was brushing dirt from her face with the back of her hand. Exile had done nothing to diminish her stunning beauty.

"Talk!"

Cynara's partial grin vanished. "First we must have an agreement and the terms for my cooperation are strictly non-negotiable."

"What do you want?" Elizabeth demanded, the angel's admonition resonating in her mind.

"You've always been an ingenuous creature, blithely floating through what has passed for your life with no concept of what is truly taking place around you. It was this naiveté that allowed me to seduce you so effortlessly in the first place." Cynara's tone was a discordant blend of disdain and longing.

"I assume there's a point to this character study?"

"You seem totally oblivious to the fact that the world is closing in around you like a steel vice. You've become so thoroughly engrossed in your search for this shallow little man that the most evident truths are lost upon you. There are enormous forces poised to destroy you for what they believe you've done to me and yet Elizabeth Simpson is oblivious to their existence. They've decided that now is the time to deal with you, Elizabeth."

"You're speaking about the drones in Colorado?"

Cynara's laughter was immediate and rife with biting sarcasm. "Foolish girl, the drones were sent to lull you into complacency...into thinking that you were somehow equal to the threat. While you squander precious time searching for Stillman, your enemies are converging upon you with the stealth and grace of the midnight wind."

Elizabeth glanced down, not willing to betray her confusion. "I have no time for riddles, Cynara."

"That is truer than you can possibly imagine," Saravic retorted hotly. "The plot to destroy you is stunningly complex, involving elaborate misdirection at every turn. I have felt your confusion over recent events and can tell you that it is well warranted. This fatuous obsession with Stillman will get you killed. I have a vested interest in your well being...if you die, so do I."

Elizabeth brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Why such an elaborate scheme? When they finally came for me, I'd always imagined that it would be in a brutal and vulgar fashion. This subtlety makes no real sense. Inculcating fantasy notions in the heads of the humans seems utterly pointless."

"Confined as I am, I've only managed to gain a rudimentary sense of what is happening...enough to know that you and I are in serious danger of extinction. Described what's happened since our last night together and be very specific."

Much to her surprised, Elizabeth did exactly this. Standing at the center of the barren plain, Simpson attempted to accurately recount all that had transpired since her return to the United States. Cynara listened intently, her exquisite face now a portrait of growing consternation.

Finally, Elizabeth concluded her tale and looked to Saravic for a reaction. A part of her mind still found it difficult to digest that she was actually standing face to face with the dark lady, rationally discussing her predicament. Cynara did not reply for a considerable time, but when she did reply, her voice wavered with apprehension. "The human's are merely distractions. The real danger will come from someone or something else."

"But why go to such lengths?" Elizabeth cried in frustration. "Why not dispatch some of those invincible demons you once told me about and be done with it?"

"I'd be lying if I pretended to know for certain," Cynara admitted. "I suspect that you frighten them."

"Frighten them?" Elizabeth echoed, clearly cynical.

"Absolutely!" Cynara insisted. "Try to see yourself from their perspective...you are a non-aligned free agent...a being of immense power with fealty to no one. You have instilled terror in the hearts of my former masters and just as mortals are apt to do, they will fear and destroy all that they don't understand."

Simpson considered this for a moment, recognizing the logic in Cynara's explanation. "Then, what do I do?"

Saravic tried to suppress her soaring jubilation. She could sense the other woman's puissance, but still saw that she could be manipulated...beguiled. "You have to distinguish between actual threats and simple distractions...and you have to free me."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed and she took a defiant step away from the dark lady. "No, I will not be responsible for letting you loose on the world." She glanced away in utter disgust. "How easily you deceive me."

"Listen to me, you childish bitch!" Cynara roared, her lips twisting into a contemptuous snarl. "Do you have any concept of what's at stake here?"

Elizabeth took another step away from Saravic and glanced balefully at the other immortal. Moving with startling speed and agility, Cynara closed the distance between the pair, and plunging her right hand into the golden tumble of hair, drew Elizabeth to her until their bodies were pressed tightly together. Simpson stiffened, but made no attempt to extricate herself from Cynara's grasp.

"There are a few intrinsic truths you'd better embrace if you wish to survive," Cynara growled, her breath hot and sweet against Simpson's upturned face. "My former masters are intent upon destroying you and they will not relent until they've achieved precisely that. You are not equipped to deal with their threat because, despite you wealth of power, you lack the requisite dark soul to understand how they think. I do! I can help you determine how best to protect yourself and unravel the complexity of this plot against you. If you remain unconvinced, consider this...I am the only one who can tell you what happened to your precious David Stillman. I will not tell you if I remain exile in this place. Threaten me if you will, but death is preferable to continued existence here."

Elizabeth brusquely pushed Cynara away. The two women glared at each other over the expanse of dirt. The set of the dark lady's jaw informed Elizabeth that her vow had been delivered in dead and unwavering earnest. Finally, her shoulders sagged. She had come to a critical juncture...a moral and philosophical impasse. She could renege and leave Cynara in exile, thus forever ending her search for David or she could free Cynara and become co-conspirator in whatever acts of evil the dark lady might perpetrate once free.

The angel had foretold of this dilemma and in her arrogant certitude, she had asserted that she could not be so easily duped. How woefully wrong she had been.

In a moment of crystalline revelation, Elizabeth discovered the epiphany that would only allow for one response to Saravic's demands. David Stillman was the lynch pin to her emotional stability. In her immortal heart, Elizabeth was certain that her sanity hinged upon learning what became of David. She was reasonable confident that she could bear the weight of his death, but she could not live with this nebulous ignorance.

She shifted her gaze back to Cynara, who regarded her with the unflinching gaze of a hawk. In that moment of moral dissolution, she head herself ask, "What is it you want?"

A grin of blazing triumph spread over Cynara's face like oil over water, causing Elizabeth to shudder. "Why, a body, of course."

Chapter Eighteen

1

The only sounds to be heard in the Simpson house were the sharp rasp of Nathaniel's breathing and the metronomic, metallic ping of water dripping into the kitchen sink.

Nath lay on the cold ceramic tiles of the kitchen floor, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. How long had it been since Gerchnau had taken his leave? It seemed like an eternity, but Simpson's rational mind insisted that it could not be longer than five or six hours.

' _By now, he could be on a flight headed west to L.A. or Seattle_ ,' Nath thought with plummeting despair. " _Oh mother, I'm so sorry_."

Tears of shame and despair began to roll freely from the slits of Nath's swollen eyes and along the grotesque landscape of his battered face. It was difficult to believe, once given the correct impetus, how quickly one's world could slide into complete chaos. He had betrayed his own mother and the immensity of his shame now weighed down upon him like a mountain.

Jurgen had been jovial once he had elicited the required information, though Nath could discern the insane hunger capering in his eyes like a dark constellation. Then Jurgen had brandished the ceremonial dagger before his eyes, waving it slowly like a hypnotist's pendant. "And what purpose does this serve?"

Nath had glanced up at the massive German, his eyes alight with pain and his mouth twisted in a rictus of agony. "I don't know...she left it with me. Cut me as many times as you want, but it won't change the fact that I have no idea what it is...if it's anything more than what it appears to be."

Jurgen peered deep into Simpson's eyes for a moment and finally laughed. "I believe you, Gunner. Even if you're lying, it really doesn't matter. I'll bring it with me and when I find her, I'll let her see it. Her reaction will tell me whether it's important or not."

Nath said nothing, but feared that Gerchnau theory might well prove valid. Elizabeth had entrusted him with her very life and he had betrayed that trust to her avowed enemy.

Gerchnau tucked the knife under his arm and regarded Simpson with an expression akin to pity. "I'm getting older, Gunner. There was a time when I would have killed you and not thought twice about it. It seems that I've developed a deeper appreciation for life, so I'm going to let you live."

With this said, Jurgen had washed away the blood that covered Nath's chest and then cauterized the wounds with the dagger which he had heated on the elements of the kitchen range.

"Scream if you must, Gunner. I know I would."

Then he had proceeded to methodically ransack the house. Yet, the only thing he took was an old photograph of a very young and very innocent Elizabeth Simpson.

Finally, he returned to the kitchen to deliver one last grave warning. "I'm leaving now, Gunner, but if I ever see your face again, I'm going to cut your head off."

With tremendous effort, Simpson raised his head and stared unblinkingly at the sadistic psychopath before him. "Why don't you go back to where ever it is you've come from? No matter what it is you think you have, she's going to kill you."

With a petulant sweep of his right foot, Gerchnau kicked the chair out from under Simpson, who fell heavily to the tiled floor where he still languished some six hours later.

Nath made another attempt to move, but blood loss and pain defeated him, reducing him to utter helplessness. Rolling onto his back, he experimentally twisted slowly to his left. Pain, brilliant and incisive, exploded in his tortured chest. Gritting his teeth, Nath used his legs to propel him along the floor towards the cupboards, where he leaned his head against the oak wood, gasping for breath. Gazing down at his chest, Nath barely stifled a scream. The flesh there was flayed and raw...an oozing red and black horror.

There was a burn kit in the second floor bathroom which might just as well been on the other side of the galaxy. Still, he had to try. Somewhere, his wife was winging her way westward, spurred by the insane belief that Elizabeth intended to kill her unborn child. He tried to imagine what might transpire should Tayza actually manage to find Elizabeth, but found the prospect too awful to contemplate.

He desperately wanted to believe that Elizabeth would never hurt Tayza, that she would find a way to defuse her daughter-in-laws rage. Still, how far could she be driven before she was forced to retaliate?

The question evoked an anguished groan from Nath, who realized that he stood to lose one, if not both, of the women he loved.

' _Not to mention the unborn child, that Contayza assures you will be a daughter_ ,' an inner voice pointed out grimly. A tortured wail escaped his bloody lips and he somehow managed to propel himself to his feet. He gritted his teeth against the strident protest that issued from his ravaged flesh and waited for the wave of dizzying nausea to pass.

Slowly, he began the agonizing trek upstairs. The floating, iridescent numbers on the stove informed him that it was just past one o'clock in the morning. He needed to attend to his wounds, find a painkiller and sleep until morning.

The idea of sleep seemed ludicrous at that moment, but he was pragmatic enough to know that he could not begin the search for his wife in his present condition. Even if he was not a physical wreck, his appearance would cause the ticket agents to go into a fit of screaming horror.

After an interminable ordeal of mounting the stairs, he reached the medicine cabinet and at last managed to apply the burn bandage. Then he downed too body-numbing painkillers and regarded himself in the mirror. His face was a raised alien landscape of bruised welts.

Drawing a shaking sigh, he stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed. As he tumbled down onto the bed, his last thought was that he knew where Elizabeth was at this precise moment, while Contayza and the assassin did not. He offered a fervent prayer that this would be enough to allow him to find her first.

2

"A body?" Elizabeth echoed, her voice fraught with incredulity. Quickly, she slipped away from the dark lady.

Cynara regarded her with genuine amusement. "Naturally. I'm a spirit...a metaphysical manifestation. Like any demon, I require a body to inhabit and you're going to find me exactly the body I desire."

Elizabeth shook her head vehemently. "Absolutely not!"

"No?"

"Never. I won't be party to such a vulgar act of murder."

Saravic threw back her head and uttered a spate of derisive laughter. "Please, spare me the moral condescension. If you want to know what's become of David Stillman, I require a body. Then, if you persist in your suicidal disregard for the dangers stalking you, I will not suffer as a consequence."

Elizabeth turned away from Saravic, her mind reeling in confusion. "You want me to go out and indiscriminately select a body for you to inhabit?"

"Don't be obtuse...I know specifically which body I want."

Simpson's head snapped round to Saravic. She seized Cynara's shoulders and began to shake her slowly and roughly. Her eyes had turned a malevolent orange. "Even think of harming Cassandra Jasic and I'll tear you to pieces...revel in it!"

Saravic shrugged Elizabeth off with a dismissive wave. "This flaring temper is an intriguing new aspect of your personality. The girl is a beauty on the verge of womanhood, but I have no interest in her. When you betrayed me, it was perfection that was stolen from me. I expect to be restored with no less. You know precisely who it is that I desire and if you ever expect to learn of Stillman's fate, you're going to deliver her to me."

With dawning horror, Elizabeth understood precisely to whom Cynara was referring. Predestination crashed down upon her in one terrifying avalanche of revelation. With an icy shiver coursing along the length of her spine, she spoke the name, "Karnalla Mansley."

Saravic smiled broadly. That grin was rife with such undisguised lust that Elizabeth was forced to avert her gaze.

"Karnalla Mansley is the embodiment of female perfection and it is perfection that I demand in return for Stillman," Cynara declared flatly.

Simpson continued to stare at the distant horizon where dust devils cavorted like dancing shades. She could feel Cynara's eyes boring into her, but she refused to meet them. Even Cynara's role fit into the esoteric pattern that continued to unfold with its own unknowable purpose.

"In my visions, I was to save Mansley," she said in clear bewilderment. "I prevented her suicide and encouraged her to give up all the things that made her life unpalatable."

"Perhaps you did these things so that she might survive for a later moment when she could prove to be of some value," Cynara suggested in a voice bereft of compassion. Elizabeth was about to respond, but the harsh logic of Cynara's declaration caused her to shut her mouth with an audible pop. When she finally spoke, her voice was weak and quavering. "I can't kill someone only to be told that David is dead."

"Ah, the great moral dilemma...if Mansley dies, but Stillman lives there is a degree of continuity to assuage you guilt." Cynara regarded Elizabeth intently for several moments, her face inscrutable, and then said, "Stillman is alive."

For a moment, the earth around Elizabeth seemed to fold back on itself and she feared that she would faint. It was then she understood that the hope she'd always clung to was a shallow, brittle thing, lacking the depth of genuine conviction. Just then, a single black realization cast a pall over her euphoria. "I don't think I can kill Karnalla...she's so fragile."

With a grin that evoked images of a spider, Cynara purred, "Don't worry...you won't have to."

3

By ten o'clock the following morning, Cassie was frantic with worry. Elizabeth had not returned and Jasic's dark inner sense gleefully informed her that she would not be coming back...that once again, Cassandra Jasic had been abandoned.

' _Take the money_ ,' the damnable voice informed her and Cassie's eyes were dragged to the envelopes that lay on the room's small desk. ' _You don't need anyone and that money will allow you to live like this for the rest of your life_.'

Cassie began to weep and willed herself to look away from the awful temptation. Was betrayal such an easy matter for her then? This woman had shown generosity in a measure that Cassandra would not have thought possible only weeks before. The world was comprised of users and manipulators...plunderers who took what they wanted like pirates from another age. It was easy to repay them in kind. It was a simple matter to break them just as she had broken those six during her time on the road.

Her mind abruptly cut the thought off. Cassie implicitly understood the danger that solitude posed to her soul. Even steeped in wealth, she could not escape the certitude that she would soon slip back into her old world of violent psychosis.

"Please come back, Elizabeth," she whispered desperately even as she could feel the invisible tug of those envelopes.

Just then, the door latch sprung from its guide as though manipulated by invisible fingers. The door swung open and Elizabeth Simpson sailed through, slamming the door behind her. Her eyes gleamed wildly, sweeping over the room like twin lighthouse beacons. Finally, the settled on Cassie and she said, "I'm back, Cassie, though I guess that's obvious."

Cassie only stood there, the suggestion of a smile playing at her lips. The woman standing before her resembled Elizabeth, but her demeanor was so remarkably different that Cassie could scarcely believe that it was the same woman.

The normally impeccable Simpson appeared as though she had stumbled into a bog. Her long golden hair was disheveled and dirty and her tailored clothes hung in ruined flaps and yet, her expression was one of soaring jubilation, lending her a wildly savage aspect.

"Are you...okay?" Cassie inquired hesitantly.

"Of course, Cassie," Simpson beamed and began to strip off the ruined clothing. "Just let me shower and I'll tell you everything."

Cassie waited patiently while Elizabeth showered. When the older woman emerged some ten minutes later, Elizabeth began to recount her adventures of the previous night, finally concluding by gushing, "David...the man I've been searching for...is still alive."

"Where?"

"I don't know," Simpson murmured pensively as a shadow fell across her brow. "There's something I have to do before I can discover that."

Cassie made no comment, though she inclined her head to one side and Simpson knew that the girl perceived the turbulence that boiled beneath her euphoria. Smile fading, Elizabeth remarked, "There are times when circumstances force a person to compromise their beliefs and values...or to choose between one conflicting set of values and another. I've been maneuvered into precisely that set of circumstances."

Cassie watched silently as a strong moue of distaste ripples across the older woman's exquisite features like turbulence glimpsed beneath calm waters of a deep lake. Whatever compromise Simpson had been forced into, Cassie deduced that it had been an expensive one, indeed. Still the girl remained stoic, instead waiting for Elizabeth to elaborate. "Basically, I've got to go to Los Angeles," Simpson said at last. "There's someone there I have to find. Once I do, the search for David will be over."

"Who's making you do this?" Cassie blurted, suddenly cognizant of an unseen third party in the room.

Elizabeth's smooth brow furrowed. "I can't really explain, Cassie. I'm not certain I could provide you with a logical explanation even if there was one."

The girl accepted this with a tacit nod.

"I have to leave immediately. Do you want to come with me...or do you want to wait here until I come back?"

Apprehension, bright and glacial, bloomed in the girl's limpid blue eyes. Abruptly, she rushed to the writing desk, swept up the array of envelopes and thrust them at Elizabeth. "Please take these...and let me come with you."

Elizabeth peered at the girl for several seconds, a speculative gleam in her eyes, and caught a flickering glimpse of the profound anxiety that capered just beneath the thin veneer of her composure. Knowing the stress she had placed on the vulnerable girl by leaving her alone last night, Elizabeth closed her eyes for fear that her self-loathing would overwhelm her. In her fixation with Cynara and her search for David, she never considered the impact these envelopes might have upon the girl's fragile psyche. Slowly, she accepted the envelopes and then drew Cassie into an embrace.

"Of course, you can come," she whispered into the mane of red hair. "This will be over very soon...I swear. I see that these envelopes...the temptation they represented, were insensitive. It won't be easy, Cassie. Darkness is an insidious thing. The bitter angels of our nature are always there, hovering in shadow. We have to constantly be aware of their presence...and we have to fight them. It may be a gross oversimplification, but I really believe that the only distinction between a good and evil person is willpower. Every day that you persevere makes the next a little easier, but it's going to take time. In just a little while, I'll be here to help you every step of the way."

The girl pulled back to arms length, her eyes alight with a teary gratitude.

"Now what say we bail out of this Hooterville," Elizabeth declared happily. "This place gives me the creeps."

4

The drive from Washington to California was a frenetic blur in Cassie's mind, sometimes frightening, sometimes exciting, but always bewildering. Through it all, there persisted the disconcerting sensation that she and Elizabeth were not the only occupants of the rocketing Jaguar.

Elizabeth was uncharacteristically distant, her eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond the southern horizon. Cassie could sense something huge and complex unfolding behind those impenetrable blue eyes, but she elected not to try and draw her new benefactress out. Instead, she contented herself with listening to an oldies station that played an unending stream of hits from the dim, dead seventies and eighties, while gazing at the blurred landscape beyond her window.

Between songs, a cynical newscaster related the latest developments in a rash of civil disobedience incidents afflicting the country. He expressed a belief that these incidents were becoming something of an epidemic.

In Wichita, Kansas, three women had actually been crucified on makeshift crosses that had been erected on the lawn of a neighborhood church. When the local police finally arrived, the pastor exhorted his flock to turn on them as well. In the ensuing turmoil, the State militia was called into to restore an uneasy peace. No one was particularly surprised when the church was fire bombed in apparent retaliation for the barbaric executions.

This was only one of a dozen such stories that flooded the airwaves, filling Cassie with a vague, yet potent dread. Elizabeth seemed oblivious to this swell of disturbing news just as she did to everything else. Only once did she react to one of the news accounts pertaining to a Revisionist Church leader named Gregor Ingram.

Apparently, the FBI and FTA had conducted a joint raid on the church's Atlanta headquarters, purportedly to serve Ingram with a warrant relating to the now-notorious Vermont massacre. Upon entering the studio area, the agents were shocked to discover that the building was utterly empty. A check of Ingram's primary residence revealed exactly the same situation. Gregor Ingram had flown the coop, or more correctly, he had taken his bombastic form of evangelism on the road. Likewise, the revenue agency had attempted to freeze Ingram's assets, only to discover that they had been dispersed to safe havens beyond America's borders.

Not long after, Ingram had re-appeared on national airwaves from a mobile broadcast unit, imploring his followers to rise up and cast down the unclean, while remaining ever vigilant for the Golden Witch.

Elizabeth had reacted to this segment with a deep, mournful sigh, but she elected not to elaborate on her anxiety and Cassie had not pressed her for an explanation.

For her part, Elizabeth was grateful that the ever-perceptive Jasic seemed sensitive to her need for silence, though the speculative gleam in the girl's lovely eyes suggested that she was cognizant of Elizabeth's raging inner turmoil.

The seeds of her moral dilemma rolled about in her mind like ball bearings in a moving sphere. Could she trust Cynara in what was to follow? Could she afford not to?

Elizabeth had been utterly appalled when Cynara had disclosed details of her plan to dispossess Karnalla Mansley from her own body. On the heels of this, Elizabeth had emphatically refused to even entertain the notion.

Cynara had watched her for several moments and a disdainful grin had twisted the corners of her full lips, changing her expression to something baleful and unsettling. "Do you recall the dreams of burning, darling Elizabeth? Or should I say the nightmare?"

Elizabeth intractability had congealed into a tight knot of uncertainty. She gazed desperately about like a gazelle cornered by a lioness. Mumbling, she echoed, "nightmares?"

"The burning, Elizabeth," Cynara continued, her voice still syrupy sweet. "The nightmares are so intense that I can feel them even in this desolate hell."

"Come to the point!" Simpson snapped irritably, though her complexion had gone sallow in the dull gray light. Cynara's smile did not falter as she attacked Elizabeth's vulnerability with rapier precision. "I told you that your precious Stillman was alive, though I neglected to add that he finds himself in a precarious situation. Your rather portentous nightmare has already hinted as much. While you waste precious time grappling with your conscience, you run the risk of losing the man you profess to love."

"I cannot kill Karnalla Mansley!" Elizabeth raged, feeling a sense of frustration and helplessness that she despised.

"Nor am I asking you to," Cynara intoned calmly.

"I will not surrender control of my body to you," Elizabeth growled, though inside, she knew that she would acquiesce to whatever this vile woman might demand. Cynara glided closer, her gaze locked upon her former lover. Delicately, she slipped her hands beneath Elizabeth's sweater, questing ever upward until she gently cupped both firm breasts in either hand. Expertly, Cynara began to stroke the nipples with her thumbs, raising them into turgid knots of electric sensation. Despite herself, Elizabeth's body shivered in response to Cynara's tender ministrations.

Cynara allowed her head to roll back as she closed her eyes, exposing her long neck with its flawless ivory skin. A low, guttural growl escaped her partially closed mouth and she whispered, "You harbor such amusing delusions, my little pet. Do you actually think you have any volition in the matter? You will surrender your body to me."

Saravic regarded Simpson flatly, her dark eyes twinkling a lecher's gleam. "Perhaps I should extract another kind of payment to consummate our relationship."

She brushed Elizabeth's lips with a tender kiss before Simpson exhaled and quickly averted her face. Cynara uttered a harsh, mirthless laugh and released Elizabeth with a sharp shove, privately delighted that she had caught a glimpse of total capitulation in the other woman's captivating blue eyes.

This single agonizing encounter played itself out on the screen of her inner thoughts with frightening clarity and dismaying frequency as she drove south to her appointed juncture with the unfortunate Karnalla Mansley. By the time the pair had reached Los Angeles, Elizabeth had reached an accommodation with the moral compromise she was about to make. Cynara had said that David was in imminent danger. Despite her obvious ulterior motives, Elizabeth found that she believed the dark lady. The vision of David burning had been too stark, too graphic to be flippantly dismissed as a simple nightmare. This was the first elemental truth she had accepted...an acceptance that would allow her to turn a blind eye to Cynara's intended action.

The second fundamental truth revolved around Cynara, herself. She had promised that she had no designs upon permanently usurping physical possession of Elizabeth body. Again, Simpson found herself accepting this claim. Along the way, on impulse, Elizabeth had stopped at a gas bar and scoured its extensive magazine racks while a mystified Cassie had looked on silently. There, amidst the dozens of magazines that were devoted to female vanity and the prostitution of that sacred image, Elizabeth had come upon a glossy periodical that was dedicated entirely to Karnalla Mansley and her recent withdrawal from the world of high fashion.

The two women had sat at a small Formica table while Elizabeth poured through the retrospective. She had reached two conclusions that had helped her come to a modus vivendi with Cynara's demand. Karnalla Mansley was far and away the most exquisite beauty that Elizabeth had ever set eyes upon and (though carefully couched behind vague innuendo) she was a woman fanatically bent on self-destruction. Knowing Cynara as she did, Elizabeth was certain that Saravic would accept nothing less than faultless perfection.

"What will you do now?" Cassie asked as they sat near the Pacific Ocean, enjoying the simple fare of a Greek bistro.

"There is someone I have to find," Elizabeth answered distantly in a tone that was almost fey. "I have to leave you for a short time, Cassie, but this will be the final time...I promise."

"Can't I go with you?" the girl asked softly, without much hope.

Simpson gazed at the girl for a long time, before explaining, "I'm sorry, Cassie, but there are certain risks that I just can't expose you to."

The girl nodded her reluctant acceptance and Elizabeth experienced an incisive stab of guilt so profound that she closed her eyes until it subsided.

5

Now, with Cassie safely ensconced in a west L.A. HoJo, Elizabeth set out in search of Karnalla Mansley. Crossing Wilshire Blvd., Elizabeth allowed the vintage Jag to coast to the curb.

A demon, upon fixing a person's image in its mind, could locate a person a half world away through sheer force of will. There were, however, rare but consequential exceptions and thus Elizabeth had struggled and failed to establish a psychic connection with David Stillman. For the longest time, she believed this could only be because he was dead. Gradually, she reached the conclusion (just as Cynara, herself, had done a quarter century before) that intense personal interest somehow occluded percipience. In the case of David Stillman, Elizabeth found herself virtually blind.

Yet, sitting along the wide, sun-dappled blvd as rush hour traffic streamed by in a seemingly endless river of steel and glass, Elizabeth found that her connection with Karnalla Mansley opened with a speed and ease that was both disconcerting and terrifying.

She had located Karnalla and soon she would have to summon forth Cynara. "Not yet," she whispered shakily and pulled the Jag out into traffic, heading south to the very outskirts of the city.

Not long after, she found herself parked in a quiet and modest residential neighborhood, staring fixedly at a small, brick side split on the opposite side of the street. The sight of the house filled her with an atavistic dread that was well near paralyzing in its intensity.

The house, with its white slat fence and lilac tree, was totally nondescript...identical to a million others throughout the country and yet it was owned by a woman whose extravagance was the stuff of legend. Why and when had Karnalla purchased this humble dwelling? Elizabeth was suddenly certain that it had been years ago. Moreover, she would hazard a guess that it had been purchased as an eventual escape sanctuary where she could hide when the thin veneer of glamour peeled away to reveal the underlying rot of her life.

The implications of predestination this simple house represented very nearly caused Elizabeth to throw the car into gear and drive away. Yes, she could collect Cassie and drive off to a bright and random future of endless possibilities. As attractive as this image might be, Elizabeth knew that she would never succumb to the temptation. Despite her own vast power, Simpson was pragmatic enough to know that she was the mere pawn of a vast and unknowable piece of machinery. With trembling fingers, she keyed down the Jag and shoved the keys into the pocket of her caramel colored jacket.

Summoning her courage, she delved into herself before her courage faltered.

Cynara was waiting, her eyes blazing in keen anticipation of her imminent rebirth.

"You've come," she cooed and unable to resist the opportunity to gloat, added, "As I knew you someday would. And yet another ethical banner is reduced to tatters."

Elizabeth scowled, but did not rise to the bait. "You promised not to be cruel. This woman has suffered wretchedly. Her end should be merciful and quick."

Cynara feigned indignation. "You wound me, Elizabeth. Five years of exile has mellowed my disposition."

And yet her eyes whirled and twirled with that predatory light that Elizabeth remembered well.

Sitting behind the wheel of the white 67 Jaguar, no one witnessed the subtle, yet astounding transformation that overcame the car's lovely blond occupant. When the woman closed her blue eyes, her face possessed an angelic, gentle aspect. When the eyes reopened, they shone with a lethal-edged intelligence.

Cynara drew a deep breath and swept her gaze over the street that was alive with the muted sounds of suburban America. Finally, her eyes settled on the side split and a predacious grin spread over Elizabeth's features. She was mildly surprised to find how natural and comfortable it felt to occupy Elizabeth's skin. She stepped out of the car and after a brief hesitation, Cynara started across the street to where her new life awaited in oblivious misery.

6

Karnalla Mansley lay slumped on the faded rattan sofa, staring vacantly at the collage of images that swept by on the LCD screen. The living room around her appeared to have been the touch down point of a violent tornado. Garbage of all sorts was strewn over the carpet in ever-mounting drifts. Dirty clothing was draped over every available piece of furniture, further adding to the impression that the room's occupant might well be adrift on a sea of serious mental illness.

Mansley was as oblivious to the condition of her house as she was to her own wretched state of wellbeing. Her once lustrous hair hung limply around her face in greasy tangles and her glazed eyes stared at the television screen with no hint of awareness. The smell of stale air and perspiration suffused the house, but neither possessed the power to rouse Karnalla from her torpor.

With the abandonment of her façade had gone the last vestiges of normalcy in her every day existence. She uttered harsh barking sound that passed for derisive laugher. What a fool she had been to place any faith in the ridiculous idea of her blond angel...her esoteric savior. In retrospect, she realized that the blond had been a mere manifestation of her own cowardice. A part of her still clung desperately to life and had conjured the blond angel to save her from the cold comfort of suicide.

Now, wallowing in the miasma of her own despair, Karnalla vowed that she would never surrender to these craven delusions again. This despair was a huge, ebony thing that hung over her like an emotional avalanche. Tears of misery began to mingle with the steady stream of perspiration that ran along her high, aristocratic cheek bones.

Abruptly, her crying subsided into a raspy sob. She sat up in a posture not unlike that of a small animal that senses the approach of a deadly predator. The sound came again...the soft whisper of footsteps on concrete that made Karnalla cringe. The thought of dealing with another human being filled her with a mix of revulsion and dread. ' _This is what Howard Hughes must have felt_ ,' she thought crazily and a babbling of mad laughter welled up in her throat, though the sound that actually escaped her lips was more of a sibilant hiss.

A shadow fell across the window and Mansley whispered, "Go away, please...just fuck off!"

Her face was twisted into an almost comical mask of terror as she waited for the inevitable knock that must surely come. Surprisingly, it did not.

A thought, irrational but inescapable, leapt unbidden to her mind as she waited. ' _Whoever's out there, knows I'm here_.'

Irrational, but true...She could feel a keen gaze upon her dirty flesh as if she was lying in the middle of the street.

"Go away!" she bellowed, now on the verge of open hysteria. If they'd found her so quickly, she would be hounded incessantly and that would drive her around the bend into gibbering madness.

The sound of the door handle turning was impossibly loud in the utter silence and the click of the lock resonated in the frazzled confines of her skull like the detonation of an artillery shell.

Karnalla shook her head in negation as the door swung slowly open. That horrified denial transmogrified into soaring euphoria when she realized who it was who stood framed in the doorway.

Cynara stepped into the oppressive little house, her nose wrinkling at the pungent blend of unpleasant odors that assailed her nostrils. Her gaze swept over the litter-strewn room, her disgust growing in geometric progressions, before finally settling on the woman cowering in the corner. The sight of that ethereal face, alight with an incongruous blend of terror and jubilation, evoked a powerful wave of pity in Saravic's dark heart. To her eternal wonder, Cynara was aware that this emotion originated in her host and yet, she found herself entangled in what she had long viewed as a pointless sentiment. In that glaring instant of crystalline revelation, Cynara Saravic understood that there would be no return to the status quo of her pre-Elizabeth days. The dispassionate demon was gone as was the remorseless killer who took life with a relish that bordered on ecstasy. Elizabeth had referred to herself as an immortal and Cynara had dismissed the term as trite. Now, however, she came to see that this label was not without its essential truth.

Deeply shaken, Cynara glided deeper into the room while extending a hand to the trembling Mansley. "Let me help you up," she offered in a gentle, placating voice. "I've come to help you, just as I promised I would.

Karnalla's smiled of gratitude was blinding in its intensity, impacting Cynara with the full weight of her beauty...a beauty that would soon be hers. The keen excitement of anticipation flooded through Saravic's transient body, but she struggled mightily to maintain the façade of a concerned savior.

"You've suffered," she observed simply and nodding, Karnalla burst into a fresh fall of tears. Taking the stranger's proffered hand, she allowed herself to be assisted to her feet. Despite the tortured soul contained within, Mansley's body was perfection in the flesh.

Cynara shuddered and began to lead the taller woman toward the rear of the house. "I've come to anneal your pain," she whispered, "to lift it from your shoulders and cast it aside like a millstone."

The simple arch of an eyebrow and the curtains drew back as if pulled by invisible hands before the blinds snapped up with an emphatic twang. Late afternoon sunshine spilled into the house, banishing the pervasive gloom in a golden flood. Now the windows sprang open, allowing cool, sweet air to banish the oppressive odor of despair.

"No more cowering in darkness," Cynara intoned firmly as Karnalla gaped at the work of mind magic that her wondrous visitor had performed. "Speak to me of your torment...spare no detail."

And so Mansley did, weaving a bitter tale of self-loathing that had gradually congealed into a black stone of utter hatred for everything her life had come to represent. It occurred to Saravic that living would be virtually impossible under such a penumbra of cancerous darkness. Mansley had devised a living hell that could rival anything her former masters might concoct. From the perspective of cold reason, she saw that relieving Karnalla of her torment would truly be an act of mercy.

She led Karnalla into the bathroom and began to strip away the layers of dirty clothing. Mansley glanced at Cynara questioningly and Saravic offered the taller woman a reassuring smile. Karnalla allowed herself to be stripped and then led towards the large glass shower enclosure. Again, the gold facets turned without the benefit of touch and pulsing jets of hot water poured forth.

As she ushered Mansley beneath the streaming spray, Cynara furtively drank in the intoxicating lines of a body that would soon be her new vessel. Karnalla stood beneath the flood, head bowed and eyes closed, luxuriating in the penetrating warmth of the water. Never taking her eyes from Mansley's bewitching profile, Cynara began to remove her own clothes. Naked, she paused a moment to consider the body that had been the source of her consuming passion for a quarter century...a body she had now come to inhabit, if only for a brief moment. The strange sense of dislocation was unsettling and so she pushed it from her thoughts.

As she stepped into the shower enclosure, Cynara was surprised to find that Elizabeth's body was suffused by nervous anxiety. For five torturous years, she had been denied the intoxicating pleasure of physical contact. Karnalla seemed to welcome her presence, leaning back against Cynara, who enfolded the taller woman in her arms and began to place delicate kisses along the length of her exposed neck.

"You pine for your lost lover," Cynara intoned in a whisper like satin sliding over flesh. "Your body longs for her touch with every fiber of your being...every beat of your aching heart."

In response, Karnalla merely sighed and arched her back into Cynara's heavy breasts, gasping at the incisive touch of the erect nipples. Reaching for a bar of fragrant soap, Cynara retreated a step and applied herself to the pleasurable task of lathering Karnalla's back and shoulders while grappling to control her own mounting lust. She wanted desperately to plunder Mansley, to consume her like a rare and intoxicating delicacy, but was frustrated by a sense of priority that was not entirely her own.

"Hold me," Mansley pleaded, clearly frustrated as Cynara firmly prevented her from turning to face this mysterious stranger...this envoy of unknown purpose who had the power to evoke emotions and longings that Karnalla had believed to be long since dead.

"First tell me of Orienne," Cynara insisted, "not with words, but with images from memory."

For years, Karnalla had hid these memories, much in the way that a miser would hide bits of gold and platinum. She took them out only on rare occasion for fear that constant exposure would somehow tarnish her precious treasures. Now, secure in the arms of this exquisite creature, she closed her eyes and began to call them forth.

"Of her own accord," Elizabeth had stipulated adamantly. "I will not have you commit murder with my hands." This thought came to Cynara as the charged, passionate images of Karnalla and her lover exploded in the dark lady's mind like a star burst. The puissance of these memories was so intense that Cynara could feel the steel fiber of her thighs begin to tremble in response.

"Yes, let them come, Karnalla," she exhorted, drawing the beauty to her. With white-fired exigency, her hands began to roam over the exotic landscape of Karnalla's body...exploring, caressing, tantalizing. She cupped the firm globes of Mansley's breasts and slowly pushed them inward and upward, delighted by the dreamy sighs and fluttering eyelids that this provoked.

"How did she make love to you? Can you convey the sensation of her hands on your body...her lips...her tongue?"

Vicariously, Cynara experienced Karnalla's moments of intimacy with Orienne and began to develop an understanding of just how much the other woman had lost. The scope her inconsolable grief became comprehensible when viewed through the lens of Karnalla's memories.

The esoteric Orienne had been sensuality embodied...her lovemaking an art that approached divinity. Reluctantly, Cynara released her hold on Karnalla's breasts and allowed her fingers to stray further downward, pausing to marvel at the contrast between the tiny waist and full, flaring hips. Wavering at the edge of self-control, Karnalla began to sway her hips from side to side, creating a delicious friction against Cynara's sex. Dazzled, Cynara arched her back to intensify the contact and struggled to maintain her own composure.

"What would you give to have her back?" Cynara inquired in a voice husky with passion. As Saravic had anticipated, the tall beauty reacted sharply, her posture becoming rigid as though she believed she might be the butt of a particularly cruel and tasteless joke.

"What...what do you mean?" she stammered. Cynara did not respond at once. Instead, she continued her tender ministrations. She placed a delicate kiss at the angle of Karnalla's neck and brushed her lips past Mansley's right ear. The mortal's surrender was absolute and unequivocal. She was blissfully unaware of the astounding transmogrification that was taking place behind her. When the question was reiterated, it was done so in a heartbreakingly lovely voice that Mansley thought was lost to her forever. "What would you give to have me back?"

The hands holding her hips were suddenly withdrawn and Karnalla spun about, nearly losing her balance in her haste. There, as radiant as a dark sun, stood her beloved Orienne. For a long moment, Karnalla found that she was incapable of speech or movement. Then, tentatively, she reached out, her hands trembling as though the improbable visitor might dissolve under her touch. Lovingly, she tested the formidable weight of one high breast. The satiny texture of Orienne skin conjured the flood of a thousand memories. Karnalla burst into tears and sank to her knees before her lover, pressing her face into the unyielding flesh of Oreinne's belly.

A steady, incoherent stream of thanks, intermingled with fervent pleas for forgiveness, vibrated through Oreinne's flesh. After a moment, Orienne commanded, "Come swan, you beg for something that is yours for the taking."

"Swan!" the old term of endearment washed over Mansley like a balm and she felt a mountain of guilt and despair slide form her shoulders. She raised her face to find her beloved smiling down upon her, gently stroking her wet hair. Karnalla knew that she could never suffer separation from Orienne again.

"Is it really you?" Karnalla asked, the normal hard cynicism purged from her voice...supplanted by child-like wonder. Oreinne's ebony face rippled with a rare frown. "The messenger has opened a door so that I might come to you, but that door will not stay open for long."

"What...what do you mean?" Mansley demanded, panic welling up in her heart as she grabbed Oreinne's slender waist.

"I cannot stay in this world...the tangible world is lost to me forever. Yet, there is still a way that we can be together. The paradise we lost can be ours once more...but only if you possess the courage and conviction of love to be with me."

"Anything!" Mansley declared vehemently. "I would do anything to be with you again...to be free of this fucking insufferable guilt and loneliness."

"I cannot come to you, swan," Orienne concluded sadly. "But you can come to me. Once reunited, no excess or wild indulgence will ever be able to separate us again," She extended a hand and Karnalla accepted it willingly, saying, "Can you promise me these things?"

"Oh yes, swan," Orienne assured Karnalla, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. With a grace that was oddly formal, Orienne led her lover from the shower enclosure. The beat of her heart was thunderous and Karnalla's rush of anticipation was nearly too intense to endure.

The ebony beauty guided the taller woman silently down the short hall that turned into the master bedroom. Mansley drank in the leonine lines of Orianne's long legs and gently swaying hips. Once inside the room, Karnalla began to trembling, recalling the first time she's ever set eyes upon the woman who had come to be known as Karnalla's jewel.

During a particularly long and arduous shoot in Morocco, she had found herself feeling utterly alone and dispirited despite the army of sycophants that never seemed to leave her side. Sternly, she had been warned never to venture out in the streets alone. The white slave trade was still healthy here and a rare jewel such as Mansley could easily be swallowed up in the teeming and dirty vitality of these ancient streets. Ever defiant of restrictions (even at the expense of her own safety) Karnalla had managed to slip her cadre of attendants and venture into the streets alone. The crowd that flared through the endless bazaars was very much like a mindless entity. The smells of olives and spice and heavy perspiration were powerful and heady in the cloying streets. There must have been a mild narcotic effect as well because Karnalla could recall slipping into pleasant surreal state where everything seemed to be vague and unfocused...though comfortingly so.

Then her gaze had happened upon Orienne and lucidity had returned with an audible snap. She had been standing next to a splintered wooden table, casually examining a selection of gaudy trinkets. Karnalla had fetched a tremulous breath, somewhat chagrined by her reaction to the tall ebony beauty dressed in dark gray silk shorts and matching blouse. Her flawless skin appeared to glisten in the bright North African sunlight.

Mansley had never felt an attraction to another woman before, but Oreinne's allure was acute and undeniable. Within a minute of setting eyes on the beauty, Karnalla knew that she must possess her in every way imaginable...thoroughly and unreservedly. She had crossed the distance between the two and gently took Oreinne's slender wrist between her thumb and forefinger. Leaning forward so as to deliberately impose the full weight of her breast upon the other woman's shoulder, she had whispered into the other woman's ear. Strangely, she'd never been able to recall exactly what she had whispered, but Orienne had responded with a slight nod and bright smile that had beguiled Mansley with its luster.

Without exchanging a word, Mansley had been led to a small apartment where Orienne had made love to her with such grace and skill that Karnalla had been totally captivated. From that day forth, she and Orienne had been totally inseparable.

Now, in retrospect, there had been an awful sense of predestination about that seemingly random encounter.

"Is this really happening?" she heard herself murmur as her lover led her across the threshold. Finally, Orienne guided her to bed and pulling back the duvet, laid her upon the cool satin sheets. Tracing a meandering path over the swell of Karnalla's breasts, she whispered, "Very real, swan, but my time in this world is short. We've been granted a special dispensation, you and I, but we must take advantage of it quickly."

"Make love to me, Orienne!" Karnalla pleaded as her right leg dropped fetchingly to one side.

"Soon swan," her lover promise, "but first, you must assent what is required if we would be united once more."

Karnalla peered deep into those inscrutable dark eyes and gradually comprehension filtered in.

"Oh yes!" Mansley agreed with an eagerness that was unsettling. Not only would this act reunite her with her lover, but it would also absolve her of her sins. "If it means an eternity, then yes."

"It does, swan," Orainne assured her and suddenly the curved dagger was in her left hand, materializing out of thin air. She brandished the dagger with both hands and positioned it over Karnalla's left breast. "I love you, swan."

Abruptly, Karnalla Mansley began to cry. In their life together, Orainne had never once uttered those three precious words and she had lacked the courage to ask why. Euphoric that she had heard them at last, she clasped her hands over the haft and the two women pressed the ceremonial dagger into Karnalla's heart.

Mansley arched her back and allowed her long arms to fall to the sides as though in a gesture of acceptance. Cynara immediately dispensed with the façade and withdrawing the dagger, clamped her mouth over the spewing wound. The hot blood tasted like molten copper in her throat, but she remained utterly still until the dying heart delivered every drop it could and then went still.

Then Cynara abruptly receded and suddenly it was Elizabeth Simpson peering through her own eyes as Mansley's blood boiled within her like lava under intense pressure. She sat up in horror and stared down at the lifeless beauty lying beneath her. A wave of pity and revulsion assailed her then and she closed her eyes to escape the horrifying sight.

"Quickly Elizabeth," Cynara implored, a hint of concern framing her warning. "Timing is everything."

Elizabeth momentarily entertained the notion of ignoring Cynara's exhortation...of spewing every last drop of blood onto the floor along with the last remaining seed of the dark lady. An image of David rose to her mind and she found that she could not forsake him. Reneging would mean that Karnalla Mansley had died in vain and David Stillman would be lost to her forever.

Shuddering with disgust, Elizabeth fell forward and fastened her mouth to the wound. Then she spoke the ancient words of power in her mind and allowed the blood to regurgitate in a frenzied rush. As the blood flowed back into Mansley's body, Elizabeth experienced a sense of liberation as Cynara's life spark fled with it.

Finally, when the last drop of fluid had been returned to its rightful vessel, Simpson tumbled from the bed and fled the room, reeling down the hall and collapsing to her knees in the living room.

Chapter Nineteen

1

There was no way for her to determine how long it was before she heard footsteps coming along the ceramic tiles of the main hall. For the longest time, she could only remain on her hands and knees praying that the horrid taste of vile blood would leave her mouth. An inner voice informed her that the ghost of this taste would remain in her mouth for eternity...a permanent reminder of the unspeakable act to which she'd been an accessory.

A hand fell upon her shoulder and she actually screamed.

"Be calm, Elizabeth," Cynara whispered softly and Elizabeth gazed up to find Karnalla Mansley peering down upon her. The statuesque beauty was standing proudly to her full height, her extraordinary face blazing with triumph. In her right hand, Cynara clutched the dagger of her rebirth. She extended a hand to Elizabeth and helped the blond to her feet. Simpson tried to stand but staggered like an alcoholic in the grip of a truly horrendous hangover.

Lithely, Saravic darted forward and encircled the Simpson's waist before she collapsed. Then she led Elizabeth to the sofa and helped her lie down. "Rest...the effect will pass soon enough."

"That was vile beyond words," Simpson gasped.

"Admittedly. There are other less intimate ways to perform the ritual, but none nearly so fast or effective," she informed Elizabeth, gazing at the dazed woman with an open, speculative expression. Then she dropped to her knees beside the sofa and began to kiss Elizabeth bare left breast, her full mouth tugging at the dusty pink nipple until it rose into a turgid knot of pleasure. Despite the lingering taste of death in her mouth, Simpson found herself responding quickly to the probing tongue. Almost of their own accord, her tanned legs parted. Saravic smiled against the firm breast and deftly moved between them. The golden thighs encircled Mansley's tiny waist, holding her fast with unimaginable power. The dark lady moved to kiss Elizabeth's mouth but in the blink of an eye, found herself sailing across the room.

Startled, Cynara landed on a teak end table that shattered beneath her deceptive density. Then Elizabeth was towering over her, eyes blazing a furious and deadly orange.

"Never touch me!" she raged, her cheeks blazing a high, hectic red. "If you ever touch me again...I will kill you this time."

Cynara served up Mansley's most disarming smile and shrugged. "As you wish. I thought a gesture of gratitude was in order."

Elizabeth's face wrinkled in disgust and she turned away, racing down the hall to shower away the revolting traces of blood and retrieve her clothes. When she returned, Cynara was standing near the window, acquainting herself with the topography of her new body.

"This is perfection," she remarked dreamily, clearly impressed with the architecture of her new temple. "This woman was truly blessed by the god of genetics."

"I suspect she might have traded a good portion of that beauty for simple happiness," Elizabeth observed remotely.

"Perhaps," Cynara remarked noncommittally as her palms glided over the swell of her breasts.

"Do you think that fate has been kind enough to grant her wish?" Elizabeth asked quietly and though her tone seemed casual enough, Cynara could discern the profound anguish that lurked just beneath the surface. As first, she thought that this anguish stemmed from Elizabeth need to validate the murder of Mansley. Yet, by small increments, she came to understand that Simpson possessed a legitimate sorrow for this tortured wretch of a woman. To her own consternation, Cynara found this revelation to be profoundly touching and this reaction was so uncharacteristic of the creature she had once been that Saravic could only conclude that she was the dark lady no more. ' _Then what exactly have I become_?' she wondered, but knew that only time could disclose the answer.

"It's possible," she heard herself respond. "Elizabeth...there is no need for us to be...antagonistic. In time, I would like us to be friends."

Simpson fixed Cynara with an appraising stare and after a long moment, replied, "I wonder if that's possible?"

Saravic's brow furrowed, clearly stung by the rebuke, "Perhaps you'll choose not to believe this, but I've changed."

Elizabeth glanced at Cynara making no attempt to conceal her cynicism.

"I'm no longer a predator," Saravic insisted, her ire augmenting her phenomenal beauty. "I've become what you refer to as an immortal. Do you realize that you and I are probably the only creatures of our kind in existence?"

"You didn't hesitate to kill Karnalla," Simpson retorted flatly.

"That was an act of pure survival and you know it," Saravic rejoined hotly. "Karnalla Mansley's life was more desolate and untenable than any hell you and I could ever conjure. She attached her entire reason for living and self-worth to her lover. When Orienne died, Mansley should have died as well...it would have been a far kinder end. Nothing could have assuaged her torment or restored her belief that life had any real value. What I did was an act of mercy...whatever the motive."

Elizabeth averted her eyes, knowing that Saravic's passionate declaration was essential true. Was it totally inconceivable that Saravic could change? Recalling how the old demon had reveled in both perversity and atrocity, Elizabeth found that she could not easily accept Cynara's claim to a gentle conversion. "Now you will fulfill you part of the bargain...where can I find David?"

Cynara sighed. "I choose not to kill Stillman because there are some fates infinitely worse than simple death. Quite frankly, your lover inspired an insane jealously that I was quite unaccustomed to. Inspiration is a cruel device in my case...or should I say...was a cruel device. I steeped Stillman's mind in a mental fog and set him adrift in a cold, indifferent world."

"You despicable, miserable bitch!" Elizabeth snarled, though tears quickly welled up in her lovely blue eyes.

"You should be grateful that I decided to deal with him as I did. If I had simply killed him, her would be lost to you forever...unless you decided to follow the same path as the lamentable Karnalla."

Cynara saw that she had struck a tender nerve. Elizabeth's face blanched and then the flicker of unadulterated pain gave way to an uncharacteristic expression of truculent defiance. Saravic interpreted this display of emotions perfectly and was staggered by the implications. "You've seriously contemplated suicide?"

Now Simpson's veil slipped away to reveal the consuming pain beneath. "I'm so utterly alone," she murmured in a voice that was a pale facsimile of its normal tone and timber. "My mere presence is a menace to my son and his family. His wife despises me because of what I was...what she still believes me to be. David is the only thing I have left."

"Yet, you spoke of this girl?" Cynara prompted, frightened by this morose aspect of the women she still loved.

"Cassie," Elizabeth remarked with a wistful smile. "The girl is a jewel in desperate need of someone who can show her just how precious she is. I intend to do that, Cynara, but first I have to set the matter of David to rest. Please tell me where I can find him."

"Seattle...in a district referred to as the ' _abandoned zone_.' You're familiar with these?"

Horrified, Simpson merely nodded.

"David has lived his life as a derelict...homeless but alive," Cynara concluded in a voice bereft of all emotion.

For several moments, Elizabeth was simply too stricken to speak. Her nightmares resolved themselves into terrible clarity then...the implications perfectly and dreadful apparent. "My God...someone there has been killing the homeless...burning them alive."

Her words degenerated into muffled sobs and she lurched for the door. Cynara pursued her and catching her left wrist, pulled Elizabeth back into the room.

"The last thing you can afford is to be impetuous. Despite what you may think, David Stillman's wellbeing is not your primary concern," Cynara pointed out. Elizabeth shook her hand free with a savage tug. "Our bargain is done...now let me go."

Cynara slapped her face, the incisive sound of flesh on flesh impossibly loud in the confines of the living room. The two women glared at each other in silence for several moments and then Elizabeth growled, "Say what you have to say."

Cynara gently gripped Elizabeth by the shoulders and this time her touch was not brusquely rejected. "You can't afford to blissfully ignore what is going on around you."

"And what precisely is that, Cynara."

"My former masters are moving to destroy you...their plot is subtle and multi-faceted and this scares me because it is so unlike their normal approach in dealing with renegades. If you're not constantly vigilant, it's likely that you won't survive to find Stillman."

"Something tells me you're going to point out exactly what I need to do?" Simpson sighed, though much of the rancor had left her voice. Cynara smiled, her exotic new eyes twinkling fetchingly. "You should let me help you."

They held each others gaze for a moment and then Simpson turned away. The prospect of allowing Cynara Saravic back into her life filled her with dread too vast and complex to contemplate. Conversely, she was responsible for resurrecting Cynara and would thus claim partial ownership to her every future action. Perhaps it would be best to keep Cynara on a short leash until her true character manifested itself.

"What will you do now?" Elizabeth inquired.

"Wallow in decadence, I suppose," Saravic replied with an impertinent grin. "I'll begin by taking up the threads of Mansley's old life. The notion of being revered and worshipped for my beauty certainly appeals to my vanity. Oh yes, and I intend to make love, though I had harbored the fancy that it would be you with whom I'd being making love."

Elizabeth frowned. "We can never be as we were before, Cynara."

"But perhaps we can be friends," Cynara countered, despising the pleading quality in her voice.

"Perhaps," she replied simply. "I have to go. I'll contact you soon. Maybe there are ways that you could help me."

Cynara's smile of gratitude was too radiant to be feigned. She accompanied the blond beauty to the door and as she did, it occurred to her that this proud, enigmatic woman was her most enduring companion. She was suffused by a wave of affection that made her feel giddy. "Please let me help you," she reiterated. "You and I are kindred creatures now and we should take care of each other if only for that reason."

Elizabeth merely nodded and then she was gone. Cynara continued to gaze out into the street long after the white Jaguar had vanished. In their preoccupation with the poignancy of the moment, neither noticed the black rental sedan that idled some fifty yards along the curb, though its occupant radiated malice in palpable waves.

2

Gabriel Sorem was both agitated and depressed. It had been slightly over a week since that ungrateful, despicable bitch deserted the agency and in that time, his world had fallen into a cataclysm of anarchy. Mansley's desertion had inspired a legal feeding frenzy on the part of the clients with whom the agency had not negotiated an escape clause. Many of the corporations, like the megalithic Goliath, had been in the process of developing multi-million dollar advertising campaigns around Mansley. Without Mansley, these campaigns, along with the effort and cost of developing them, had vanished into thin air. There could be no question of a substitute...Mansley was far and away the most beautiful and recognizable face on the planet.

Now, with the source of this pandemonium having vanished, the irate moguls had decided to vent their wrath on a fixed target...namely the Gabriel Sorem agency. In the last three days alone, he had been named co-defendant in breech of contract suits totally an astounding six hundred million dollars.

If there was any consolation in this wretched affair, it was that Karnalla Mansley would be going down with him. In one particularly vivid and satisfying daydream, Gabriel pictured the bitch eking out a pathetic living on street corners and in dirty alleys giving blowjobs to diseased migrants for five dollars a go. As gratifying as this might be, Sorem deduced that Mansley viewed her impending financial ruin with complete indifference.

He cursed her with a string of vile obscenities and slammed his fist down on his desk. The notion of abject poverty mortified the fastidious Sorem, hovering over him like a black cloud. He wished he could have her lying across his desk at this moment...he would gleefully strangle the life out of her. He closed his eyes to envision this darkly satisfying scenario and just then the phone rang.

' _Can't I be allowed just one simple pleasure_?' he thought to himself, bemused. The telephone had become another instrument of torment of late. On the other end he could expect another catty bitch righteously demanding the right to fill Mansley's shoes or another corporate lawyer threatening to tack his hide to the fiscal cross. Gritting his teeth, he snatched up the phone.

"Hello, Gabriel. How's business?"

For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. Her unmitigated audacity turned his astonishment to sputtering rage. "You...you incredible cunt! How dare you call here after what you've done? Call here with your callous, smartass questions...you obdurate cunt!"

When his tirade had degenerated into a series of harsh gasps and pants, the voice on the other end of the line began to speak. "One more obscenity and I'm going to come down there and rip our throat out with my teeth. Do you believe me, Gabriel?"

Sorem's fury dried up in his throat in the blink of an eye. The voice was undoubtedly Mansley's, but the cold, reasoning tone was not. The image of her fulfilling her threat exploded in his mind, filling him with a chilling and unaccountable terror. "Yes, I do."

"Excellent, Gabriel. Now, I want you to listen carefully. I'm going to detail precisely how we're going to extricate ourselves from my little mess."

He was sorely tempted to tell her to go fuck herself, but her threat echoed in his mind and he closed his mouth with an audible plop. There was something different about her...a focus and lucidity that he had never known her to possess. Grudgingly, he began to listen, his expression one of sour tolerance.

Yet, when Karnalla Mansley rang off, Gabriel Sorem was smiling.

3

Duff Riley had encountered his share of odd characters in his time because people passed through his reception desk for every conceivable reason. Most were travelers...salesman and the like, but some came to hide...or to fuck...or both. He had been the night desk clerk at the Essex hotel in Semelar for nearly thirty years and had seen a stream of humanity flow through these doors like an endless river.

Duff privately subscribed to the idea that you only saw a person's true face at night. Under cover of darkness, the mask of civility and pretense came off to reveal the real face capering beneath.

No face had ever been more dreadful than the one he had set eyes upon just two nights past. Even the recollection caused his head to ache and his body to spasm violently.

It had been just after eleven o'clock and there had been no sign of life in the lobby. For some unfathomable reason the pervasive stillness, which Duff would normally find comforting, on this night caused him to feel vaguely uneasy.

Suddenly, the main doors seemed to spring open (even now, Duff could scarcely credit this), but it had been a full fifteen seconds before someone stepped over the threshold. Duff had been ready to be delighted when he first set eyes upon the visitor. She was diminutive, but extremely beautiful, dressed in a flowing black cape against the mid-September chill. Her hair fell below her shoulders in an elaborate cascade of jet black waves.

That delight quickly evaporated when Duff met her gaze. Those eyes were the darkest her had ever seen. They conjured images of the absolute darkness of the coffin. As black as anthracite, they whirled and twirled with an intensity that was horrible to behold. Riley was genuinely afraid that he might ignite into flames if her held that gaze too long.

"Might I help you, Ms.?" Riley managed thickly.

That gaze upon his face was ineffably horrible. From the folds of her cloak, she produced a large photograph and pushed it across the desk. "Has this woman been a guest at this hotel in the last week or so?"

Duff's gaze slid down to the photograph and he recognized the woman at once. The gorgeous blond had created quite the stir amongst the hotel staff in the two days she had stayed here.

"Um...well actually, we're not allowed to divulge information about past guests," Riley informed her, trying not to peer into those eyes. "It's hotel policy, you know."

The dark-haired beauty leaned over the counter and placed an elegant index finger on the photograph. "Mr. Riley...Duff, it's important that you believe me when I tell you that you are going to tell me whether or not this woman has been a guest in your hotel."

Her voice was calm and reasoned and totally incongruent with the lunatic gleam that burned in those eyes. "Ma'am, really I..."

But Duff got no further, his patient refusal cut off in mid-sentence by a huge explosion of white-hot pain in his skull. Riley clutched his head as if to forestall the eruption that seemed imminent as the pain intensified. He forced his eyes open and upon seeing her face through the distorted lens of tears, somehow understood that she was doing this to him. As if in affirmation, she nodded and the pain abated to a tolerable level.

The woman was smiling now and though the smile was radiant, Duff saw that it never touched those demented eyes. She reached across the counter and smoothed an errant lock of silver-gray hair. "Now Duff, this really isn't necessary. The hotel policy is rather...ridiculous. Besides, who would know but you and me?"

Duff wavered. Was her request really so unreasonable? Surely she was not one of those depraved stalkers who had brought about the implementation of this policy in the first place? All of this consideration took place in a fraction of a second, but apparently was long enough to exhaust this hellish woman's patience.

Duff was skewered by a sharp pain directly behind the bridge of his nose, rupturing several blood vessels and spewing blood onto the counter in a crimson fan.

"Christ, please stop!" Duff bawled, raising his hands to the faucet of his nose to stanch the flow of blood. The pressure receded as the invisible needle withdrew.

"I'm waiting, Mr. Riley," the woman remarked with a snap of steel in her voice.

Mercifully, the flow of blood ceased as well. Duff glanced at his blood-spattered hands with a kind of dazed wonder. When he spoke, his words were delivered in a flat, tremulous monotone that he could scarcely recognize as his own voice. "The woman...the one you want...she was here just two days ago. She came in late in the afternoon and left about the same time next day."

"Was she alone?"

"No, she wasn't. There was a girl with her...a pretty thing and friendly, too."

"Very good, Duff," the woman nodded, her anthracite eyes gleaming with delight. "Was that really so difficult? Now, one final matter and I want you to think carefully. Did the woman give you any indication of where she might be going next?"

Duff felt the old sense of discretion attempt to re-assert itself, but he prudently told it to fuck off. "The woman didn't. She seemed like she had a lot on her mind. The girl...she really was a sweet thing...anyway, she said they were leaving for L.A."

"Very good, Duff. You've been...helpful." Reaching into her purse, the woman produced a fifty dollar bill and laid it on the counter. Without further word, she turned on her heels and vanished into the night.

Duff's gaze fell upon the crisp new bill and he snatched it up and jammed it into the pocket of his workpants as if it might be diseased.

He briefly considered calling the police, but then emasculating fear stayed his hand. What could he really tell them that would not sound like the demented raving of a madman?

Instead, he began to clean his blood from the counter, grateful that he was not the woman in the glossy photograph.

4

Elizabeth Simpson was not expansive upon her return from Karnalla Mansley's hideaway. Ever perceptive, Cassie discerned jubilation tempered by agitation in the enigmatic beauty's mood. She elected not to press Elizabeth, who revealed only that their final destination was an about face to Seattle. Cassie did not know what had transpired during Simpson's absence, but she was able to discern that it had been something of great consequence and that Elizabeth had procured the crucial bit of information she'd been seeking.

Now, eight hours later, she found herself racing up highway five toward Oregon, the splendor of the Northern California countryside racing by in a dizzying blur. The Jag was racing along at a steady one hundred and thirty miles per hour, but Cassie found herself feeling exhilarated rather than terrified. Simpson maneuvered through the tight curves with a confidence and skill that was simply astounding.

When Elizabeth had first established this breakneck pace, Cassie was certain that State Troopers would quickly put and end to their rocket sled jaunt. She had been shocked to incredulity when the Jag had blazed by several units without as much as a desultory wail of their sirens. It was almost as thought they had become undetectable phantoms. ' _Perhaps we have_ ,' she thought, bemused. In her brief time with Elizabeth, she had learned that nearly anything was possible and she found herself craving more of the immortal's mystery.

The thought that she might be in real physical danger never entered her mind. Instead, her thoughts were riveted solely on the way that Simpson had rescued her from the loneliness and lunacy of her rambling cross country exodus. Besides, it seemed that Elizabeth could protect them from whatever danger might lie ahead.

A few miles south of the Oregon border, Cassie was to be quickly and terrifyingly disabused of that foolhardy notion.

5

The location of Dalton's fuel and feed was as improbable as its name. Located along highway five, just north of Mount Shasta, it gave the impression of an ugly blight on an otherwise idyllic landscape.

State Highway five was the ugly sister of the more picturesque highway 101 and thus often eschewed by the yuppies in search of the Pacific coast experience the ocean side highway offered. Highway five came to be known as the blue collar highway, preferred by truckers and travelers who had neither the time nor the interest to enjoy the ocean view.

Elizabeth's jaguar rolled along highway five like a streak of white lightening and it was one o'clock in the morning before she pulled onto the tarmac of Dalton's stopover. Despite the late hour...or possibly because of it...the diner was abuzz with activity. An amazingly energetic waitress zipped from table to table filled with bleary-eyed truckers.

Cassie and Elizabeth slipped into a booth and began to consider the surprisingly extensive menu. Nearly ten minutes later, a jet black Nissan Eliminator turned into the lot and parked thirty yards from the Jaguar. Elizabeth and Cassie ate and chatted, oblivious to the predator that had stalked them over the length of California and was now poised to strike.

Sipping her coffee, Simpson said, "Look Kiddo, I'd like to cross the state line for the sake of a bench mark if nothing else. Then we'll stop at the first decent motel we come to so that you can shower and catch a few decent hours of rest. Sound okay?"

"Right as rain," Cassie replied cheerily, exasperated by the kind of sappy delight she felt in the other woman's company. Elizabeth suggested they move and Cassie readily agreed. While Simpson rose to pay the cheque, Cassie headed off to the ladies room feeling sleepy and content.

6

Dalton's fuel and feed and been witness to many dubious spectacles in its time, despite its relatively remote location. There had been three drive by shooting deaths on its sea of tarmac and savage and vapid brawls too numerous to count. Once, the lot had played host to a massive rumble between two rival motorcycle gangs. By Carl Dalton's own count, there had been twenty-eight police and ambulance vehicles dispatched to collect the detritus of that night's festivities.

None of these things could prepare Dalton's for the apocalyptic mayhem that was about to descend upon it like the fall of God's hammer.

Elizabeth paid the cheque, smiling radiantly at the cashier. Her mood was buoyant despite the fact that David might be in serious danger. Cynara claimed that she had fogged his mind, but Elizabeth tried not to ponder that, instead fixing on the fact that he was still alive.

She stepped out into the September air which was still warm despite the proximity of fall. Inhaling deeply, she began to walk towards her Jag when she noticed that a figure was standing in the shadows immediately behind the car. At first, she thought it might be the angel, here with the intention of delivering another grim warning. The she realized that the silhouette was too small to belong to the creature she'd encountered in Semelar. Something about the figure's posture raised a strident cry of alarm in her mind and she came to an abrupt halt.

The figure was strikingly familiar, though its features were lost in shadow.

The image of Contayza leapt suddenly to her mind, though surely that was ludicrous. Contayza was back in to Boston waiting to give birth to her granddaughter. She took a tentative step in the direction of the figure that had not moved since Elizabeth had first set eyes upon it. In the next instant, a nebulous shape was converging upon her from out of the darkness where the figure stood. It struck her like an invisible fist and she found herself being hurled back towards the building.

Flying backwards with tremendous velocity, Elizabeth struck the side of the building with a meaty thud and slide down the concrete wall to the dirty sidewalk. Behind her, Elizabeth was aware that the three huge windows that looked in upon the restaurant had exploded into the building's interior in a hail of glass. From within there erupted screams of pain and panic.

She pushed herself to her feet just in time to see her prized Jaguar flip into the air end over end like a giant coin. It landed on its roof with a sickening crunch of metal and glass and was soon engulfed in an orange ball of flame.

Cassie Jasic emerged from the restroom just as the huge plate glass windows shattered, sending lethal shards of glass ripping through the restaurant. A six inch sliver embedded itself in the wall less than three inches from her head. In the pandemonium that followed, Cassie could only think of one thing...Elizabeth.

She sprinted towards the exit just as the Jaguar executed its improbable somersault.

Contayza stepped into the circle of muted halogen light just as Elizabeth regained her feet. Her head was buzzing with fury and her face was a mask of malice and imminent destruction. Elizabeth needed only one glance to know that her daughter-in-law was possessed of a murderous frenzy. She was beyond the reach of logic, but Simpson had little choice but to try...the alternative was simply too horrifying to contemplate.

"Contayza, for the love of God, what are you doing?" she cried, raising her hands in a gesture of placation. "You're going to kill someone...if you haven't already."

"I'm surprised you can speak that name and not burst into flames," she rasped as her mouth twisted into a disdainful sneer. She moved closer, her hair and face slick with perspiration. "You're not going to take my child. I'll bring the mountains down on both of us before I'd allow that."

A concrete box had been anchored into the ground next to the main entrance to the restaurant to serve as a trash receptacle. Contayza's demented gaze fell upon it and it leapt from the ground in a scream of concrete, steel and sparks.

Elizabeth reacted, but not quickly enough to avoid the blow entirely. The concrete box struck her a glancing blow to the left shoulder and sent her reeling through the window where she landed on the glass and blood-stained floor.

"You'll never have my child!" she heard Contayza screech from somewhere in the parking lot.

In the few seconds she remained on her back, Elizabeth became cognizant of many things. First, and perhaps most consequential, she realized that her own anger was mounting. If she glanced into a mirror, she would see that her eyes were glowing the eerie orange that always signified the onset of rage...even transformation. It was imperative that she clamp that anger off completely. This was not some mindless drone who had assailed her, but her daughter-in-law who carried her unborn grandchild. If she was to succumb to her fury, it would result in a tragedy of epic proportions.

As for Contayza, it was clearly evident that she had every intention of making good on her threats. Clearly she had been implanted with the idea that Elizabeth had designs on her unborn child. Simpson prayed that she could find some way of divesting her of this notion before things escalated much further and someone got seriously hurt.

' _Too late for that, girl_ ,' Elizabeth thought to herself as she climbed warily to her feet. All around her, scores of bleeding and wounded patrons were scattered around the floor of the dinner. The air was redolent with the smell of perspiration and blood. Those who had managed to escape the initial attack were huddled along the back wall like frightened sheep. It was critical that Elizabeth take the confrontation back outside before Contayza turned the diner into a slaughterhouse.

Leaping nimbly through the opening, Simpson sprinted along the building and then across the tarmac at a diagonal, heading for the highway. There followed a massive roar as the earth beneath her feet appeared to thrust itself skyward. The asphalt pitched and buckled a crazy angles and Simpson again found herself on her back gazing up at the heavens. The immensity of Contayza's power shocked Elizabeth. It now far exceeded what it had been when Contayza had attempted to kill Cynara back in Romania five years prior.

"Don't try to run, you cowardly bitch," Tayza roared furiously. "There's nowhere you can run that I won't find you."

Elizabeth rolled swiftly to her left and a three foot section of concrete retaining wall crashed down on the spot she had just vacated.

Cassie emerged from the diner and seeing the section of concrete narrowly miss crushing Elizabeth, began to shriek. "Elizabeth, is it another drone?"

Elizabeth sat up immediately; suddenly terrified that Contayza would turn her fury on the girl. "Cassandra, get back inside...now!"

Contayza took advantage of the momentary distraction to strike. The ground beneath Elizabeth's feet split open and swallowed Simpson to the neck. Simultaneously, the canopy that served as a cover for the bank of fuel pumps was ripped from its moorings and crashed down on Elizabeth who was still attempting to extricate herself from the pit. Thousands of pounds of Plexiglas and steel toppled down upon the immortal and there followed a moment of profound silence.

Contayza took a step toward Cassie, fixing the girl with an appraising stare, quickly divining that she was mortal and without power. Still, she found her curiosity roused by the demon bitch's traveling companion. "So you are the mysterious daughter?" she chided with undisguised contempt. "Tell me...are you her personal play thing?"

Tears spilled along Cassie's cheek and terror closed the bore of her throat to the size of a pinhole. Still, she managed to give voice to a gasping plea. "Please...please don't hurt her...just leave us alone, okay?"

Tayza spat a burst of amused laughter. In her preoccupation with Cassandra, she failed to notice the black Jaguar Elegante that had cruised into the parking lot and now sat idling some fifty feet from where the night's drama was unfolding. With a malefic grin twisting her lips, Contayza extended her right arm and made a closing gesture with her fist. Abruptly, Cassie found herself caught up in an invisible vice and in the next moment she was being hoisted into the air, where she hovered some fifteen feet above the ruined parking lot.

Elizabeth had finally managed to crawl from the wreckage and upon seeing Cassie hovering in the night air, was deluged by every misgiving she had experienced about having the innocent girl travel with her. Yet, unlike the situation with the drones, she could not simply lash out at Cassie's tormentor.

The enormity of her dilemma resolved itself in that terrible moment and Elizabeth understood how chillingly accurate Cynara had been in insisting that she was woeful unprepared to face the menace that awaited her. Perhaps she had been rash in rejecting Cynara's offer of help, but regret was a pointless emotion at this juncture. It was necessary to deflect Tayza's rage back upon her.

"Contayza, let the girl go!" Elizabeth bellowed, her voice resonating with an authority she knew would rankle the other woman. Tayza's head swung around, her eyes blazing balefully. "The girl is innocent. Whatever your quarrel might be with me, she is not part of it. There is no justification in hurting her...now let her go...please!"

"Do you promise to stand and fight?"

"I'll not run," Elizabeth vowed. Contayza smiled and the invisible hands holding Jasic vanished causing her to tumble heavily to the asphalt. She rolled onto her face and lay utterly still.

"Goddamn it, there was no need for that," Elizabeth cried and started towards Cassie on the run. She had taken only a few steps when the earth convulsed again and she was pitched forward onto her stomach. An eerie popping sound and the metallic clatter of steel rolling over the tarmac drew her attention. Swiveling her head in the direction of the sounds, Elizabeth saw that Contayza had used her telekinetic powers to pop the caps of the fuel feeder pipes that supplied the underground storage tanks. Gasoline and diesel fuel came gushing out of the tanks like a geyser and across the broken tarmac in an ever-widening fan. Simpson looked on in horror as the fuel washed over the unmoving Jasic and spread rapidly toward the main building.

Looking back at Contayza, she saw the younger woman regarding her with a maniacal grin that twisted her face into a death mask. Slowly, Elizabeth climbed to her feet. It had been her initial intention to allow Contayza to exhaust herself as she had done in Chevru and then try to exorcise the madness that had driven her to this. Now, however, the Gypsy displayed no compunction about hurting others to achieve her objective and Elizabeth could no longer afford a passive defense.

Contayza glanced up to the strands of overhead wires that ran across the lot from the building to the ruined columns of the fuel pumps. Simpson followed her gaze, discerned her intentions and understood that the situation was about to worsen dramatically.

"Contayza!" she screamed. The Gypsy returned her attention to her perceived enemy. Elizabeth's face was set and grim. "What you're doing is stupid and murderous. You risk killing everyone here...including yourself and your unborn child...the only one to walk away will be me."

"Don't you dare speak of my child!" Contayza spat venomously. She flicked her gaze toward the hydro wires and they separated from the pole with a distinct twang. Then moving slowly, as if in the thrall of a charmer's trance, the wires undulated through the air like snakes...hovering directly over the prone form of Cassie Jasic. Seeing the impending catastrophe, people began to flee the building in blind panic. Contayza ignored them. "Perhaps your _daughter_ should be the first to die."

Paralyzed, Elizabeth said nothing. The wires continued to slither in the night air, but they did not fall. It became apparent that Contayza did not actually intend to drop the wires...at least, not yet. In a tight, controlled voice, Elizabeth attempted to reach her daughter-in-law one final time. "None of this is necessary, Contayza. If it's me you want, then we can go somewhere and settle this like two mature women...some place where no innocent bystanders can be hurt."

"Oh, we'll settle this all right," Contayza retorted in a voice that hovered on the edge of hysteria. "But we'll settle it here and now."

Simpson took two steps forward, mentally assessing the effort required to bring Contayza down while preventing the wires from falling into the spill of fuel. Much to Simpson's relief, Cassie was beginning to stir ever so slightly. Taking a third step, she spoke softly, "Contayza, you know that you can't kill me this way. You can level the entire place and it won't matter."

"Not another step!" Tayza admonished and the wires dipped towards the ground. "I can't kill you, but you can kill yourself...and you will or the girl will suffer for your cowardice."

There was a hard, obdurate glint in Contayza's dark eyes and Simpson knew that she could stall no further. She was preparing to unleash a gentle burst of telekinetic energy when Contayza was suddenly throw forward, landing on her right side with a muffled grunt.

Startled, Elizabeth was very nearly too late to react. Swiveling her head toward the main building, she sent a powerful burst of energy pulsing out toward the point where the wires connected with the structure. The lack of control crumpled the entire side of the building, sending a cloud of plaster dust billowing out over the tarmac. The wires fell harmlessly onto Cassie, but did not ignite the lake of fuel that had now spread over the entire lot.

Mystified, Elizabeth turned back to Contayza who was climbing groggily to her feet. In their preoccupation with each other, neither woman noticed the statuesque figure that had emerged from the Elegante and was now crossing the lot, heels clicking purposefully in the night air.

Contayza had made it to her feet but was immediately slapped down by another shock wave. She lay gasping on the tarmac while fuel soaked into her black cloak. She raised her head just as Karnalla Mansley stepped into the circle of light. Towering over the fallen woman, Cynara intoned, "History repeats itself...again you find yourself at my mercy."

Contayza froze...her entire body stiffening in disbelief. "It can't be?"

"Oh, but it most assuredly is, my Gypsy whore," Cynara declared gleefully.

"You're alive!" Contayza stammered...though the demon's old barb had confirmed the fact.

"More than you can ever imagine," Cynara purred with a smile. Reaching down, she hauled the smaller woman to her feet. Contayza twisted and squirmed in Saravic's grasp as though she might be trapped by something ineffably foul. "Elizabeth, you lying bitch," Tayza roared, "You've done this!"

"Shut your vile mouth!" Cynara snarled and then delivered a smashing backhand that drove Contayza flat onto her back. The jeweled vault of the heavens began to drift in and out of focus as blood began to stream from her mouth and nose.

Cynara strode forward, preparing to administer a savage kick to Contayza's face, when Elizabeth's strident voice rang out across the parking lot. "Cynara, enough!"

Saravic paused and glanced questioningly at Simpson. Seeing the adamant expression set on Elizabeth smudged face, she shrugged indifferently and stepped away from Contayza.

In the distance, the strident shriek of rapidly approaching police cars filled the night air. Elizabeth assisted a dazed Jasic to her feet and stood gazing about the parking lot in total bewilderment. From Elizabeth's expression, it was clear to Cynara that her fellow immortal was in a state of shock. ' _Deny it if you will, but you still need me, Elizabeth_ ,' Saravic thought to herself with no small measure of satisfaction.

"I would suggest that we beat a hasty retreat," She offered, coming to assist Elizabeth with Jasic. "This is going to be very difficult to explain in rational terms."

Simpson regarded Cynara distantly and nodded. "My car is demolished."

"We'll take mine, but we have to be quick."

"Take Cassandra," Elizabeth pleaded, leaning the girl against Cynara's shoulder. "I have to carry Contayza."

Cynara stopped, openly perplexed. "Why? Did she not just try to kill you?"

Elizabeth bent down and gently lifted the prone form into her arms. "She's my daughter-in-law, Cynara."

Without further elaboration, she marched quickly across the parking lot. Mystified, Cynara watched her for several seconds and then moved to follow. She quickly eased Cassie into the front seat and then raced around to the driver's side. In the rear, Elizabeth lifted Contayza onto the cool leather seat and slid in beside the Gypsy who appeared to have slid into a fugue state.

Cynara gunned the Jag's accelerator and the Elegante virtually leapt out of the shadows and raced through the lot before swerving out onto highway five like a black wraith.

The night's considerable madness should have ended there, but lunacy has a way of gaining its own momentum once its wheels have been set in motion. Carl Dalton, infuriated by the destruction of his business and bolstered by the perpetrators evident retreat, raced into the lot brandishing his shotgun. In his extreme agitation, he failed to grasp the essential danger that went with the pungent odor hanging in the air like a miasma.

Spreading his legs, he aimed at the Jag and fired. The subsequent spark and spreading shot ignited the pools of fuel and in mere seconds the entire lot and building were engulfed in a brilliant ball of flames that leapt a full eighty feet into the air.

Along the highway, the concussion threw the Jaguar's rear end sharply to the left, but Cynara expertly decelerated, corrected the float and then tramped down on the gas pedal.

Seconds later, the thousands of gallons of fuel in Dalton's underground storage tanks erupted. The squat concrete building was lifted from its shallow foundations and blown to dust in the subsequent fire storm, killing all but three survivors who had fled into a deep ravine just behind the diner.

When authorities arrived, they would discover a crater some thirty feet deep and two hundred and fifty feet in diameter.

The exact number of those who had perished would never be known.

Chapter Twenty

1

When Dalton's fuel and feed exploded into a ghastly ball of orange and red fire, everyone in the Elegante, with the exception of Cynara Saravic, was plunged into a stunned silence. In her glacial indifference to death, Saravic continued to drive with an exigent need simply to escape.

Cassie stared fixedly out of the windshield, her luminous eyes wide and glazed. Glancing to the rearview mirror, Cynara saw Elizabeth cradling the Gypsy whore against her shoulder and tenderly stroking her hair. The immortal appeared sickened and pale because of all that had transpired, her grief exacerbated by the knowledge of just how many people were in the diner just prior to Contayza's assault.

Cynara viewed her maternal treatment of the gypsy with no small degree of exasperation. The bitch had tried to kill her and still Elizabeth treated her with a kindness that she did not deserve. Elizabeth became aware of Cynara's scrutiny and inquired softly, "What compelled you to follow me?"

"You need me," Saravic replied flatly. "I came to try to make you understand just how badly you could use my help." Inclining her head towards the dazed Contayza, she added, "I suspect you've come to see the truth of this on your own."

Elizabeth drew a shaky breath and bowed her head. "Thank you."

Saravic, deeply touched, found she was unable to reply, startled by the tears that had suddenly risen to her eyes. They drove in silence, crossing the state border into Oregon, while around them the world turned on the hinge of calamity.

2

The events of that night would remain a perplexing mystery to all but a few. Both local and state investigators would attempt to unravel the puzzle of the fiery and bloody carnage, but would fail due to lack of scope. When federal agents were summoned, the first fragments of the mystery would begin to fall into place, though these would reveal a far more baffling mystery that defied all logic.

The three surviving witnesses provided accounts that were surprisingly detailed and lucid in light of the ordeal they had endured. Despite this coherence, the investigators still had difficulty accepting what was disclosed.

The husband...a factory pipe fitter...had summarized the evening's dramatic events in a voice that was tremulous and slightly bewildered. "Everything was quiet you know...even though the place was pretty full...probably because it was so late. I remember when they came in. I think every head in the place turned. The blond woman was so beautiful that it was kind of hard to look at her for too long. The girl that was with her...she was maybe fifteen or sixteen and you could tell that she was gonna be exactly the same before too long. They were classy too and I remember thinkin' that they were outta place in a greasy spoon diner."

He smiled at his questioners and looked at his hands as though slightly embarrassed. "Anyway, they came in like that and it was one of those moments when everything comes to a halt for a minute. I bet everyone in the place could have described those two ladies. Then they sat down and the moment was...broken."

The interrogators had exchanged glances and then one asked what had occurred next. The man's eyes seemed to lose focus and a bemused expression rippled across his hawkish face.

"I don't know what I saw...I mean, Christ...I saw what I saw, but it just doesn't make one bit of sense. The blond stood up and left the diner while the girl headed to the rest room. Seconds later, all of the glass windows along the front of the diner just blew in."

So the car blew up?" one of the investigators asked, pointing to a photograph showing the charred remains of the vintage Jaguar.

"No, that happened later," he replied unequivocally. "I have no idea what caused the windows to blow in...they just did. By that time, panic had broken out in the diner. There were screaming, bleeding people everywhere. The girl came running out of the restroom just as the blond came sailing through the window opening as if she'd been shot out of a cannon."

At this point, the man shook his head in perplexity. "That woman went down like a ton of bricks...I swear to god she did. What's more, she landed in a mess of broken glass. Yet, she bounced up and jumped back outside as though she was made of rubber. There wasn't a scratch on her."

Again, there came the silent exchange of raised eyebrows and they bid the witness to continue. "You're never gonna believe the next part, but I'll take any test you want to prove it's true. Sometimes I think I'm going crazy."

He shivered and drew a quavering breath while the investigators waited patiently. "I'm a curious sort by nature and though my gut instinct told me to gather up my family and get the hell out of there, I just had to see what was happening outside."

He hesitated, glancing back through the lens of memory until finally, one of the investigators prompted, "What did you see?"

"The blond was sprinting across the pavement and it was like the earth was...was trying to eat her. The parking lot was churning up behind her there was some giant animal burrowing through the earth. Finally, it caught up to her and she was swallowed up to her neck."

The team regarded him with inscrutable expressions and he merely shrugged. "I know that sounds insane and the thing is...it only gets worse. That was when I noticed this other woman. I couldn't see her face because she was sort of in the shadows, but her eyes were glowing like bits of coal...they were the most frightening eyes I'd ever seen. In that moment, I knew that she was the one doing all this just as surely as I know my own name. Seconds later, the top of the pump island ripped off its moorings and crashed down on the woman in the hole. It flew through the air as if it was a bit of cardboard. There had to be ten tons of steel in that cover! How the hell could she do something like that?"

Instead of responding, the investigators just stared back, their faces set in identical impassive expressions. When it became evident that neither would speculate, the man concluded his fantastic tale.

"The girl went tearing out the door and started screaming for the woman who had been buried under the steel."

"Did you hear a name?"

"Yes, Elizabeth, and the blond called for her to get back... _Cassandra, get back inside_!" she screamed." He abruptly stopped.

Clearly puzzled, the lead investigator reminded the witness, "But you just stated that the blond was buried under tons of rubble?"

The man gazed up, his eyes large and frightened beneath the harsh lights. "I know...she crawled out, pushing aside sheets of metal that must have weighed hundreds of pounds."

He inhaled sharply and averted his gaze to his hands. "Then the caps popped off the storage feeder pipes and I ran. I collected my family and ran out the back door without as much as a word of warning to the others."

Suddenly he began to weep. The investigators consoled him with a stream of meaningless platitudes, thought both were uncertain how to interpret his testimony.

The wife and daughter were able to corroborate many of the details of the man's story just prior to their hasty and fortunate departure. The three then spent several hours help a sketch artist produce penciled etchings of both women. These sketches were quickly disseminated to all local and state authorities in the neighboring states.

After the conflagration had been subdued by chemical fire bombers, the forensics experts began to prod through the charred detritus in search of evidence that might reveal exactly what had befallen the fuel stop.

Meanwhile, federal investigators stumbled upon two rather intriguing and improbable bits of information. The red-haired girl turned out to be one Cassandra Jasic. The sketch was a perfect match with a child-find poster that had initially been issued by Canadian authorities a few years prior. Amazingly, this teenage runaway had come to light in a northern California diner in the company of an even more mysterious woman.

For federal authorities, Elizabeth Simpson was quickly becoming a true and indecipherable anomaly. Examination of the ruined Jaguar had enable authorities to determine that the vehicle was registered to one Elizabeth Simpson and had disembarked from a cargo plane less than a month before at Boston's new Logan airport. Three weeks later, the same Elizabeth Simpson had been reported as a guest of an isolated Colorado motel where a brutal murder had occurred.

After determining that Elizabeth Simpson had been involved in the Dalton fuel and food disaster in some unknown capacity, it was decided to elevate her status to wanted, armed and dangerous.

Still, when the FBI had finally established its position in the matter of Elizabeth Simpson, she was well on the way along her final path of the converging.

Only two men fully grasped the ramifications as the macabre bit of drama that had unfolded at the isolated truck stop. Those two men were Gregor Ingram and Jurgen Gerchnau.

Though unaware of the others existence or purpose, both men shared a sense of genuine delight upon hearing the news.

3

The black Elegante rolled through the warm September night like a leonine shadow, all stealth and speed. Finally, upon reaching the town of Canyonville in Southern Oregon, Cynara judged that she had put enough distance between them and the diner disaster to rest for the night. In her view, it was unlikely that anyone would have survived the explosion and hopefully their escape had been clean and undetected.

Once in town, Cynara had quickly located an acceptable hotel, registered and went about getting the three other women out of sight as quickly as possible. None of the four could have imagined just how far along the authorities had come in unraveling the night's tragic mystery.

The four women entered the two bedroom suite and Elizabeth immediately guided Contayza to the nearest bed and gingerly helped her lay down after removing her fuel-soaked cloak. Her daughter-in-laws mouth was slack and her dark eyes stared fixedly at the monotonous whirl of the ceiling fan.

Cynara carried her single suitcase over to the closet and nimbly pushed it aside, aware of the girl's intense scrutiny of her every move. "You've been watching me constantly ever since you climbed into my car," she remarked without glancing up. "Perhaps you'd care to share why?"

She stood up and regarded the girl questioningly. In the face of such enormous beauty, Cassie found herself wanting to squirm and jive. The woman was even more scintillating in person and Cassie was forced to avert her eyes merely to speak. "Are you really Karnalla Mansley?"

Cynara threw back her head and laughed, a rich, disarming sound that caused Cassie to smile, despite her timidity. Cynara glided closer and extended her long arm, loving the lithe elegance this new body possessed. Mansley's natural structure and symmetry made the simplest of movements seem like beguiling poetry. "Yes, I really am Karnalla Mansley, and you are?"

"Cassandra Jasic," the girl replied shyly. As she shook the tall beauty's hand, she could not help but notice how long and aristocratic her fingers appeared, "You know Elizabeth well?"

Cynara glanced at the girl and then shifted her gaze toward the bedroom door through which she could see Simpson gazing down on the supine Contayza. The blonde's limpid blue eyes were pinched with concern. Saravic experienced a rush of love for the other woman that startled her in its intensity. In her previous incarnation, love was something that existed far beyond her demonic sensibilities. Now, however, she felt that long denied emotion that was both frightening and exhilarating. That this love would be unrequited caused her an incisive pain that she simply could not contemplate without falling into a state of panic. It had been the alien force that had compelled her to follow Simpson after her rebirth in Los Angeles. Gradually, she came to the realization that her new psyche had been forged and contoured in the cauldron of Elizabeth Simpson's delicate and gentle soul. In the process, much of her old malevolence had been scoured away.

Again, she became aware of Cassie's scrutiny and turned back to the girl with a brilliant smile. "Oh yes, Elizabeth and I are old friends...old friends, indeed."

Jasic frowned, recalling a strange incident that had occurred when she and Elizabeth had first been traveling through the mid-west. Simpson, upon seeing the beauty's face on the cover of a national fashion magazine, had inquired who she was. Her reaction to the picture had been one of profound shock. That odd moment now assume macabre overtones in light of what she had just been told. Still, Cassie decided that it might that there might be some prudence in keeping her misgivings to herself. In person, there was a formidable, daunting aspect to Karnalla Mansley's lovely face...one that did not convey itself in magazine photographs. Cassie suspected that this sultry beauty might not take well to contradiction or questioning. Lamely, she concluded, "It's really nice to meet someone so...so famous."

Cynara only smiled and crossing over to a wingback, next to the window, sat and gazed thoughtfully into the night sky beyond.

In the back room, Elizabeth gingerly ran her hands over Contayza's body, seeking any indication of physical injury. With no small measure of apprehension, she placed the flat of her right palm on the tight mound of her daughter-in-law's belly. To her eternal relief, the fetus conveyed a strong heartbeat. Sitting back in her chair, Elizabeth smiled and allowed her chin to settle to her chest. She could feel a low, recumbent pulse of puissance in the beat of the fetus' heart and experience a pang of pity for her future granddaughter...knowing that, as remarkable as they might seem, such powers were by no means a blessing.

Concern for her son kept gnawing incessantly at her thoughts, but she refused to give it an audience. Fetching a deep and weary sigh, she pushed herself to her feet, intending to leave Contayza to rest. Unexpectedly, Contayza's left hand clamped down upon Elizabeth's wrist. When she glanced down, she saw that her daughter-in-law was gazing up at her, her beautiful features contorted by a baleful expression. When Tayza spoke, her voice was fraught with acrimony and despair. "How could you...how dare you reanimate that monster?"

"I could ask you precisely the same question?" she retorted, her tone soft but cool. "How could you possibly believe that I could harm my son or his family?"

"I have no idea what you're capable of. For that matter, I have no idea what you are or how you feel?"

Cynara had come to stand in the doorway, silently watching the exchange with an amused grin. Contayza's gaze happened upon the statuesque beauty and she recoiled as though slapped, snarling like a cornered dog. Elizabeth grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her briskly. "Stop that at once...you've been the cause of too much chaos already. Now you're going to keep quiet and listen to what I have to say."

Contayza glared and her mouth twisted into a line of pure petulance, but she remained silent.

"Why would you come to the conclusion that I would possibly harm your child?" Elizabeth began the earnest puzzlement raw in her voice. Contayza scowled even as tiny seeds of doubt and horror germinated in her mind. "You want your precious lover so desperately and in your colossal arrogance, you'll do anything to have him. There's no point in pretending you don't know about my daughter or the power she's destined to possess. How appealing it must seem to you...a simple exchange...my child for your lost lover. Only, I'll never allow that to happen. I'd rather see her dead than allow her to become like you...or her."

Her eyes flicked to Saravic, who pointedly ignored the bard. Instead, Cynara focused her intention on Elizabeth, who in her consternation did not know whether to laugh or cry.

"Of course, you must realize that it's not the Gypsy speaking," Cynara observed. "Perhaps now you'll listen when I try to tell you just how delicate and precarious your situation has become."

"You're saying that these ideas were implanted in her head?" Elizabeth demanded. Cynara simply nodded and Simpson returned her attention to Contayza. "Tayza, if only you could see how ludicrous your allegations are. I am not and have never been some kind of satanic henchman. Even when I was under Cynara's thrall, my only allegiance was to her. Now, my only loyalty is to myself. What's more, the people you believe I'm conspiring with are striving mightily to kill me."

"Why should I believe you?" Contayza spat, though the shadow of doubt was looming ever longer on her brow. "After all, you lied about that monster."

"Yes, indeed I did. Would you have understood if I had attempted to explain the sense of obligation that led me to spare her life? Perhaps I was unconsciously motivated by the knowledge that I would someday require her help to find David. Nothing would ever compel me to conspire against my family. To find David, it was first necessary to vivify Cynara and so I did. I have made my accommodation with that compromise and will accept full responsibility for her actions. So you see, in practical terms, there was no need to strike a deal with the devil."

Contayza frowned and looked away. The frenetic and angry buzz that had afflicted her thoughts, occluding reason like a blanket, was at last beginning to fade. In its place came the horrifying images of her deadly rampage at the northern California diner. Throwing her arms across her face, she began to sob...rumbling wails of anguish that shook her entire body. Elizabeth gently but firmly drew her hands away from her face. "There'll be time enough for remorse later, but first I need to know what's happened to Nathaniel?"

Contayza's eyes widened as her fevered mind turn to the one neglected aspect of this hellish nightmare. She felt like a woman who awakens from a deep and dreamless sleep to discover that her hands are covered in blood and the room around her strewn with ravaged corpses and no recollection of what had transpired. Frantically, she sat up and snatched for the phone, shaking hands struggling to key the digits of her home number.

The connection was finally made and the phone began to ring, but with each successive ring that went unanswered, she could feel a corkscrew of anxiety burrow deeper into her heart. Finally, she simply let the receiver slip from her fingers and fell back onto her pillow, fresh tears welling up in her dark eyes. Along with this moment of exquisitely sharp agony came perfect revelation...as the monster had suggested, she had been beguiled. Even so, she could not shrug off the burden of duplicity. The proposition had been offered...Elizabeth, the ineffably vile night spawn, was her sly and scheming enemy. Contayza, her prejudices intractable things she could not surrender, had gleefully embraced the bait.

In retrospect, she came to fathom some of what capered behind her willingness to be deceived and the subsequent revulsion filled her with self-loathing. Her acrimony towards Elizabeth lay not in the immortal's nature, but rather in the fact that she was the thing Nathaniel loved above all else. Being regarded as second best was something that Contayza could not abide. This refusal to be less than Nathaniel's one and only passion had manifested itself in a deep-rooted paranoia towards a woman who had displayed only kindness.

Ultimately, none of this really mattered to Contayza. Only Nathaniel and her daughter held any significance for her and this spiteful rancor had put them both in extreme jeopardy.

Bounding to her feet, she started towards the door, but Elizabeth intercepted her. "What are you doing?"

"I've got to leave now!" she exclaimed and tried to push Simpson aside, though the immortal held her fast. "Absolutely not...you're going to stay with me. Tomorrow, we'll drive to Seattle and fly back to Boston together."

"No, Goddamnit!" Contayza screeched and began to struggle anew. "If Nath is in danger, then I've got to go to him. I can drive to Portland and fly home on the next available connector flight."

Suddenly, Cynara appeared beside the pair and firmly imposed herself between the two. Contayza's face contorted into a grimace of unbridled hatred to which Saravic replied with a radiant smile. "Has it ever occurred to you that your husband has simply gone off to search for his truant wife?"

Contayza snarled, but said nothing. Turning toward Elizabeth, Cynara offered a startling suggestion. "It might be helpful if you left the two of us alone for a short time."

Simpson was clearly startled by this request. Her glance strayed over Cynara's shoulder and she saw that her daughter-in-law was every bit as astounded. Casting Cynara a clear glance of warning, she turned and went reluctantly from the room, closing the door behind her.

4

Cynara watched Elizabeth exit, deliberately keeping her back to the Gypsy until the door had closed. When she returned her attention to Contayza, the two women regarded each other like wary enemies during a period of fragile truce.

"I have nothing to say to you," Contayza declared truculently.

"Which is just as well because I want you to shut your impudent mouth and listen carefully to what I'm about to say." She crossed the room and towered over the Gypsy, looming over her like a tangible shadow. Contayza glared up at the much taller immortal and refused to be intimidated.

"There are a few salient truths that you had best come to terms with quickly," Cynara began. "Besides being a self-centered, obtuse bitch, you have become a murderess tonight. In your stupidity, you allowed paranoia and hatred to bend you to the service of the thing you claim to despise. If Elizabeth is guilty of anything, it is an overabundance of compassion and love. All around her there are forces that are poised to destroy her and she is obsessed with righting an injustice that is a quarter century old. You and I would never be accused of having the same shortcoming. We are both ruthless, driven woman, but at least I am capable of enough self honesty to know precisely what I am. Still, I possessed the wisdom to learn from Elizabeth. After spending five years entrapped in the cleft of her heart, I have come to understand something of what it is to be human."

"Do you really expect me to believe any of this bullshit? You can fool Elizabeth, but you couldn't fool Rebecca and you certainly can't fool me!" Contayza spat derisively.

"Quite frankly, I don't particularly give a fuck what a Gypsy whore believes," Cynara retorted calmly. Contayza started to move, but Saravic pushed her forcefully back onto the bed and plunged her left hand into the smaller woman's hair, while continuing to speak in a calm, reasoned voice. "What I am concerned about is Elizabeth. Thanks to your misadventure, her position has become infinitely more delicate. Starting now, however, you're going to become a dutiful daughter-in-law and do exactly what she asks of you."

Contayza glared, but again guilt attenuated her anger. Cynara knelt on the bed beside her old enemy and leaned over the smaller woman until they were nose to nose. "I'm going to do everything within my power to extricate Elizabeth from the predicament she's blundered into. Pray that I succeed because there is one other operative truth that you should understand...twice you've fallen under my hand and on both occasions, Elizabeth has intervened to spare your life. You and I have a score to settle, but I will forego that as long as Elizabeth lives. Should she die...especially as a consequence of your infantile spite, I will find you and kill you as slowly and painfully as I'm able."

"You don't frighten me!" Contayza spat, her jaw clenched tightly.

Cynara offered the girl a predator's grin. "Then you're even more foolish than I thought. Now, I want a simple promise...you will do nothing to harm Elizabeth or Make her situation more difficult."

Slowly Contayza nodded and then challenged, "You're really no different, are you?"

Cynara grinned Karnalla Mansley's fetching grin. The she spread her long fingers on her chest and inclined her head in a mock gesture of indignation. "Why, I'm completely reformed." Abruptly, her grin changed hardening into something fraught with menace. Sweeping an arm along the length of her magnificent new body, she intoned, "A leopard might change its spots...but not its fangs."

Cynara crossed the room, but paused with her hand on the imitation crystal door handle. She turned back to Contayza with a speculative expression set on her exquisite face. "When your husband first came to Bucharest, I found him alone. He sucked my breast like a hungry baby and pleaded to have me. I could take him from you in the blink of an eye. It might even amuse me to have him satisfy me while you looked on. When this is over, why don't you find me? We can settle this...one razor-edged woman to another."

"I want nothing to do with you," Contayza croaked and averted her eyes. Cynara uttered a derisive spate of laughter and left the room, closing the door behind her.

When she emerged, Cynara was not surprised to find Elizabeth hovering by the door. She regarded Cynara with an inquisitive gleam in her limpid blue eyes. "What went on in there?"

Cynara smiled. "Contayza and I were merely getting acquainted. I do believe the two of us can become good friends."

"Oh my God!" Cassie suddenly exclaimed, startling the two immortals. She leapt to her feet, knocking over a small end table in the process, and stood staring fixedly at the television set. Her pretty face was ashen and her blue eyes were animated by fear. "Elizabeth, I think you should see this."

The two women joined Jasic near the large television console and immediately gleaned the source of the girl's agitation. A CNN mobile crew had set up on the north edge of the Dalton fuel and feed lot and a camera was slowly panning over the charred nightmarescape and the blackened husk that had so recently been a thriving business concern. Gradually, the camera zoomed in to reveal and enormous crater. Almost tentatively, the sun peeked over the trees on the eastern horizon, but its angle was still too acute to penetrate the oily shadows of the crater.

"Turn up the volume, please," Simpson requested...her voice strained and anxious. Cassie complied and the television reporter conveyed a sketchy account of what had transpired at the isolated truck stop. The camera panned away from the blast crater, which Elizabeth thought resembled a portal to hell, to the tense face of CNN's Charlotte Marriker. The pretty blonde's face was quizzical as was befitting the confounding story. Oddly enough, the highly professional Marriker bore a startling resemblance to another reporter that Simpson recalled well. Melissa Dandridge had not been nearly as illustrious, but had been every bit as tenacious. When Dandridge had turned her ambitions in Cynara's direction that tenacity had cost the reporter her life. Elizabeth stole a furtive glance at the new version of Saravic, recalling that Melissa's head had been found with empty eye sockets.

Charlotte did not smile as she related what little was known about the night's mysterious events. "No one is precisely certain what happened in the early morning hours at Dalton fuel and feed, located along highway 5 in Northern California. Only a vacationing family of three from Virginia survived the night's horrendous explosion that devastated this business and killed a yet unknown number of occupants. Authorities have yet to determine how many people have perished here, but local residents have told CNN that his thriving business was often filled to capacity both day and night."

"If the scope of the tragedy remains a mystery, then the circumstances which precipitated the explosions are even more perplexing." As the camera followed, Charlotte walked briskly around the edge of the lot and stood next to a twisted hunk of metal that had been cordoned off with orange police tape. Gesturing in the direction of the wreckage, Charlotte declared, "Police are indicating that this vehicle may hold the key to the mystery. There is speculation that the occupants of this vehicle...a vintage Jaguar...may have been involved in a violent dispute that ended in a firestorm of death and destruction."

"Again, authorities refused to divulge just how the occupants might have been involved in this disaster, but they had issued composite sketches along with two people who are being sought in connection with this investigation."

Two artist's sketches replaced the reporter, evoking a deep groan from Simpson. The voice-over confirmed her worst fears. "Elizabeth Simpson, shown on the left, and Cassandra Jasic, a minor, are both the subjects of an intense manhunt this morning. They are being sought in connection with this disaster and the murder of a Colorado motel owner."

The two sketches vanished to be replaced by actual police photographs as Charlotte's voice provided the dramatic background. "This photograph of Ms. Simpson is twenty-five years old. The woman, herself, is an elusive and baffling phantom who disappeared twenty-five years ago in a fire and flood that destroyed a good portion of the town of Semelar, Washington. CNN has also learned that her ex-husband was found brutally murdered in his Los Angeles home some five years after Ms. Simpson's disappearance. Now, some twenty years later, Ms. Simpson is again at the epicenter of a dark drama of violence and murder."

"Her companion, Cassandra Jasic, is a fifteen years old runaway from Ontario, Canada. It is not clear whether the girl is being held against her will. State and Federal authorities ask for the public's help in locating these two women, but consider Elizabeth Simpson to be extremely dangerous."

Seconds later the story ended and segued into an editorial on the wave of civil violence that had engulfed the country during the last few weeks. Elizabeth turned to face Cynara, visibly shaken by the rapidity with which her world was crumbling. The prospect of an intense police search made the task of reaching Seattle and finding David extremely difficult...if not impossible.

Somberly, Cynara informed Simpson, "We have to talk seriously about what you're going to do."

Before Elizabeth could respond, a muffled thud filled the room. Pivoting around, the found that Cassandra Jasic had fainted.

5

The three women were not the only viewers to have a vested interest in the Dalton's fuel and feed disaster. Two others watched the broadcast, both grasping the essence of the dark drama that had befallen the truck stop.

Jurgen Gerchnau gazed fixedly at the screen, a grin breaking across his angular features like scum floating on the surface of a pond. He had flown to Los Angeles as a logical point of commencement and was delighted to find that his instinct had proven correct. It seemed that the finely honed instincts of a predator did not fade with age. Jurgen theorized that, if he was to open the window of his hotel room, he would catch a faint trace of her scent even through the cloying stench of this overblown cesspool of a city.

The mulling son had revealed that her final destination was somewhere in Washington state and judging by the location of the night's amusing sideshow, Jurgen knew that he had not lied. He allowed his gaze to slide to the emerald-encrusted dagger that sat on writing desk near the door of his hotel room. The blade gleamed wickedly even in the muted light of his hotel room. Gerchnau had studied the dagger in detail as he crossed the country, staring at it the way a miser will obsessively count his horde of silver and gold in the slow, dead hours after midnight.

Impulsively, he stood up and quickly retrieved the killing tool, holding it up gently as if it was a thing of incalculable worth and fragility. Naked, he clutched the dagger to his bare chest and lay back down on the bed. Closing his eyes, he was acutely aware of his penis as it lay dormant along his thigh.

He tried to imagine the sound she would make as he slid the dagger into her left breast. It would pushed it slowly to the hilt as she whimpered and then screamed...there would be a liquid tearing sound as the soft tissue parted and hot blood began to flow. There would be a muffled grating sound as the forged steel pushed through cartilage and bone alike. As the images gained focus and resolution in his mind, his cock began to stiffen and rise to its full throbbing length. The reality of her imminent death filtered into the blonde's exquisite blue eyes and her face constricted into a death mask of agony and terror. It was no surprised that his titanic release occurred in perfect syncopation with the blond drawing her final gasping breath.

6

Another man was fixed upon the CNN report with fervent interest and while Jurgen Gerchnau was driven by the cold, predator's need to extinguish life, Gregor Ingram found himself caught in the hot, swirling vortex of growing madness.

The voices informed him that he need only be patient and the witch, in the thrall of her own turpitude, would reveal herself. Again, his unseen spiritual advisor had proven correct, just as it had when it warned him to transfer funds and liquidate assets in the days before the devil's agents...the government...had tried to intervene in his sacred mission. He had outwitted them, just as he would outwit the blond harlot. It was just as he had always believed...the Lord would guide the righteous through times of darkness. The Lord's vision had led him to the den of iniquity in Vermont where he had cleansed the world of this vile sisterhood and now it had led him to this place.

' _A requiem for God's beleaguered general_ ,' he thought, having no notion just how ridiculous and pompous this thought truly was. Still, he had not come to this place by accident. He had been summoned here by the whispering voice of the Lord for this was hallowed ground...a secret place of miracles where God had not been reduced to a tourist attraction like the other supposedly great religious cities of the world.

The people of this particular remote Mexican town were stoic to say the least. They tended the town's secrets well and the ambience of the town conveyed a simple, silent and yet unmistakable message to stranger...you're unwelcome here. It's best if you leave quickly, quietly and without questions.

In the case of Gregor Ingram, the reception had been different. The townspeople had received Ingram with open arms because they had recognized his holy nature. This was a town that had borne witness to piety and miracles. Gregor had listened raptly while they described the dark angel that had visited them some years before. They spoke of how her retribution for the wicked had been brutally swift and how her reward for devotion had been ineffably sweet.

The town had also known darkness and depravity in the form of Satan's mercenaries. They had come in the guise of mortal men, but they had been demons as surely as Satan's hand now guided the course of his own country's government. Fire could not kill them and bullets could not dissuade them. They might well have laid the town to ruin had it not been for the dark angel's opportune intervention.

The town knew of these things, but did not speak of them. Instead, it remained vigilant...waiting for the day another emissary would come and provide them with divine direction.

And now he had come like a refugee from a bloody and bitter war that was far from over. They had embraced him with open arms and he had decided that it would be from here that he would wage his war against the tide of evil that had crested over his home. Like a holy warrior, he would go forth and strike his enemies at their most vulnerable point before retreating back to the sanctuary of his new home.

Ah, but the tide was turning. All across the United States, the fires of piety were raging and it would be Gregor Ingram who would fan their flames. Now, he had found the trail of the flaxen-haired harlot. He would dispatch his children to find her...to run her to ground and cast her, kicking and screaming, into the pit.

Gregor smiled, already formulating the fiery rhetoric that would inspire his children to take up the sword. Taking up his pen, he sat at his crude wooden desk and began to write, his every word guided by the Lord's hand.

Around him, the town of El Zaltaro was steeped in expectant silence.

Chapter Twenty One

1

When Gregor Ingram had blithely contemplated the success of his Christian uprising, he had been frighteningly accurate in assessing its scale and impact. Several state Governors, bewildered by the escalating daily violence, were seriously considering imposing marshal law. The greatest proliferation of civil disobedience and violence was taking place in the Bible belt, where religious zeal had long been simmering on the edge of outright explosion. Yet, there were disturbing indications that this religious fervor was spilling over into areas of the country where religion...at least of late...had been regarded as an amusing diversion for the mentally enfeebled. Even in California, the traditional enclave of liberal (if not bizarre) new age philosophy, there had been incidents of extreme violence against wiccans, occultists and all manner of pagan practitioners.

While the rest of the country was struggling to extricate itself from the maelstrom of violence, Seattle was preparing to reclaim a part of itself from the chaos of the abandoned zone. For Stuart Macevey, the past five days had blitzed by in a frenzy of preparation. Stu attended planning sessions that lasted the better part of entire days and listened to astounding briefings by city planners who warned that civilian casualties must be kept to a minimum if there was to be any hope of garnering public support for the invasion and reoccupation.

Invasion and occupation...these words rattled in Stuarts mind like stones, suffusing the entire moment with a chilling sense of dark fantasy. Upon further consideration, he realized that the two terms were brutally correct...what they were planning was indeed and invasion just as if they were planning to roll into Canada or Mexico. Somehow, through some perverse twist of madness or woeful lack of spirit, his country had lost the will to oppose the wave of slime that threatened to leech away everything good in society. The abandoned zones were a kind of social appeasement that made Macevey sick to his stomach.

' _How many lives would be lost because of some cowardly sociologist's lame-brained theory_?' Stu wondered as he listened to the pencil-neck drone on about the importance of not causing too many casualties amongst the area gangs.

It was blackly ironic that those who opposed these inane policies of appeasement were the ones called upon to rectify its disastrous consequences. Franklin Lawland had appointed Macevey as the special task force commander of the cadre of policemen who would be involved in the initial incursion. There would be over a thousand of these and they would be supported closely be a like number of national guardsmen. To his disbelief, Macevey had learned that there would be a dozen of the guard's new tiger-hawk gun ships at the forces disposal. Evidently, the guard commanders anticipated major resistance from the gangs who currently held dominion over the zone.

Behind this imposing array of firepower would come a host of civil defense teams comprised of firefighters, ambulances and paramedics to help clean up the human wreckage?

Macevey sighed, knowing that the actual occupation was only the beginning. Lawland had also informed him that, as remuneration for having conceived this great scheme, Macevey was to be named precinct commander of the new police detachment that was to be stationed in the zone once the hostilities had come to a conclusion. The notion caused Macevey to wince. The zone would be a volatile tinder box for years to come...a place where there would be heavy law enforcement casualties. It was precisely for this reason that these zones had been created in the first place. The prospect was daunting and the reward dubious, but Macevey supposed he should be grateful.

' _Two days_ ,' he thought, the idea causing his heart to accelerate a notch. The invasion was scheduled to commence at six-thirty in the morning two days hence.

2

While Stuart Macevey was preparing for the assault, there were others who viewed the coming action with far less enthusiasm.

Macevey's ex-partner, Alain Joubert, was perhaps the most vociferous opponent to the entire concept amongst the nay-sayers in the police locker rooms. His opposition to the plan stemmed from two very divergent motivations. The ostensible reason was his conviction that plunging into the abandon zone would result in a dramatic loss of life amongst his fellow officers and in this regard, his fear was not without its merit. The second reason...and indeed, the real reason...was far less compassionate. If anyone understood the ferocity of the opposition the police could expect upon crossing into the zone, it was Alain Joubert. For the better part of seven years, Joubert had received a monthly graft payment from both the Colombian and Vietnamese gangs that operated in the zone. In return, he had occasionally supplied them with bits of information that had proven useful in keeping their respective ships clear of turbulent waters.

In that time, Joubert had dropped snippets regarding impending drug raids and other coordinated crackdowns on gang activities. Once, he had even divulged the location of a lightly guarded cache of high tech light weaponry. That cache had fallen prey to a well-organized and ruthless robbery. The Vietnamese had methodically butchered the small security force and then set the building to the torch, thus effectively insuring a distinct lack of both witnesses and evidence.

Oh, how the slant-eyed savages had rewarded him lavishly for that particular disclosure. Through all of it, his sanctimonious prick of a partner hadn't the slightest inkling that Joubert was as crooked as the fucking Snake River. Macevey's ignorance could be attributed to Joubert's extreme discretion in conducting his personal business. A born bachelor, he had made certain that his windfalls did not reflect inordinately in either his personal life or his finances.

A shrewd man, Joubert was well aware of the pitfalls of being ' _on the take_.' He had witnessed the bitter consequences of stupidity and greed far too many times to fall into that trap. Some became careless, while others grew arrogant enough to flaunt their ill-begotten wealth. What these assholes seemed so eager to forget was that people were spiteful and jealous by nature. The clothes and the car that were not quite commensurate with the dowdy salary...these things got noticed and that set the rumor mill in motion. Not long after IA landed on the stupid bastard with both feet. Joubert was determined that he would not meet a similar fate.

Modesty governed his every action. He had been prudent enough to move his nest egg north of the border into Canada. The chalet was his personal and private joy, set deep in the heart of idyllic British Columbia. No one...absolutely no one...knew of its existence. Were things to continue on their present course, he would be able to retire to a comfortable life, leaving this shit pit of a city to the vermin that inhabited it.

Of course, now all of that had changed thanks to Macevey and one simple conversation with that jungle fighter, Carcavice.

Joubert cursed and stepped out of the doorway into the aggravating drizzle. On the opposite side of the street, four men climbed out of two different vehicles and drifted over to the detective. Two were known members of the Columbian gangs, while the other two had been sent by the Vietnamese warlords. The two groups eyed each other with open animosity, but mutual interests kept their belligerence in check.

Joubert watched the group approach with carefully concealed contempt. When they reached his side of the street, he ushered them into a narrow alley that ran along side an abandoned car parts distributor. It was the Columbian who spoke first, his voice at once petulant and smug, "Whatcha got for us, paleass...and make it quick cause the stench up in here is tough to stand."

Joubert tensed as the greaseball cast a combative glance at the other pair, but the Vietnamese simply ignored the barb. The detective began to relax a little and conveyed his information. When he had concluded, both groups were visibly shaken, though the Columbians were far more vociferous in their reaction. The Vietnamese were stoic as usual, but their disquiet was clear nonetheless.

"That fucking ape!" the Columbian spat furiously. "He's a walking dead man...him and those fucking lunatics...we should've cleaned them out a long time ago."

Joubert nodded, knowing that Carcavice's future promised to be short and violent. The idea inspired a grin of delight that was lost in the purple gloom of the alleyway.

"When will they come?" the slope asked tensely, speaking for the first time. Joubert shifted his eyes to the boy, who looked to be no older than fifteen. Unlike his brash adversaries, the Oriental's eyes radiated a wary comprehension of what was required to survive in the dirtiest of worlds. Joubert had little doubt that they would be here long after the antagonistic greaseballs were a vague and unpleasant memory.

"The day after tomorrow," he replied. "Sometime in the early morning and they're gonna come loaded for bear, so I suggest you be ready."

"We will...I can assure you of that," the Vietnamese promised with a slight smile. Joubert merely nodded, knowing that this discourse was at and end. As a final formality, the two groups each handed Joubert an envelope and then stalked off. Joubert tucked the envelopes into the mickey pocket of his jacket, not bothering to open either. Both would hold substantial amounts of cash and so there was no need to display any impatience. Slowly, he drifted back to his car, no longer able to hold the satisfied grin at bay. The situation was salvageable after all. Joubert had little doubt that the city's resolve was tentative at best on the matter of reclaiming the zones. It the initial re-occupation was met with heavy resistance, it was not inconceivable that enthusiasm for the entire asinine notion would quickly evaporate. If a few cops had to die to prove the point...well, shit happens.

As Joubert drove home through the rain-darkened streets, suddenly he started to laugh.

3

Wayman Carcavice, the object of much outrage amongst the gang lords, sat in an ancient chair near the cracked picture window of his hostel, gazing pensively at the falling rain. A faint, ineffective light was slowly bleeding into the eastern horizon, but the slate gray clouds promised that it would be another unrelentingly dreary day in a place where such days were a matter of course.

It was just after six o'clock in the morning, but Wayman found that he was incapable of even a light doze, though his body felt leaden and desperately tired. Stu Macevey had called him late yesterday afternoon, and though he had not come out and said so directly, he had hinted strongly that some action was imminent. He had gone so far as to recommend that Wayman's people lay low for the next several days. Wayman had spent the better part of last night trying to discreetly pass this message along, while trying to suppress the euphoria that made him feel giddy.

Finally, miraculously, something was going to be done to reverse the blight that had been allowed to fester in the heart of his city. For years, he had clung to the scant hope that some bureaucrat would finally come to his senses and put an end to this insanity, but that hope had been a sallow thing without much conviction.

Wayman was enough of a pragmatist to realize that the transition back to civility would not be an easy one. Scum like the type that control the abandoned zone would not surrender their kingdoms without a long and desperate fight. They would have to be dragged away kicking and frothing like rabid dogs.

The front door suddenly opened and the man stumbled in. Wayman tracked his movements as he crossed over to the ancient coffee percolator where he drew himself a mug of stale coffee. Carrying it in both hands like a man with an extreme case of palsy, the man slumped into a nearby chair and stared fixedly into the cup of boiling liquid.

Carcavice watched the derelict surreptitiously, concerned by his pallid complexion and the haunted look in his dark eyes. Up until recently, the derelict had seemed entirely disconnected and remote. Yet now, very much like the abandon zone he called home, he appeared to be poised on the edge of a drastic change. Judging by the furrowed brow and those dark eyes, the change did not promise to be pleasant.

Watching the enigmatic derelict, Wayman was suddenly visited by a presage of disaster so profound that it was all he could do not to cry out in despair. Instead he averted his eyes to the street which seemed as barren as a November graveyard.

' _Settle back, man, 'cause the next few days is gonna be the longest of your life_ ,' he thought and perhaps, in some remote corner of his mind, he realized that they could also be his last.

4

David! Elizabeth! And darker, terror-hued, Cynara! These three names ran in an endless circle through the haze of his thoughts, denying him the glazed comfort of his customary dream state. He raised his coffee to his lips with hands that trembled badly. The last several days had been especially difficult and the derelict feared that he was losing his tenuous grip on sanity. A constant flash of images accosted him endlessly now...some seemed distant and abstract, while others were graphic and depressingly stark.

Despite his lingering malaise, the derelict intuited the essence of what now afflicted him and this understanding filled him with an atavistic dread. These images were cameos of what he had been before...before something had happened to him. The specifics of that cataclysmic event had yet to resolve themselves into something intelligible, but he suspected that the moment of revelation was close at hand. An illuminating light would shine upon him and the scales would fall away from his eyes to reveal what...he could not begin to predict. The derelict (David, an adamant voice in his mind insisted) found no comfort in this imminent epiphany. There was a measure of cold comfort in the unending blur of his present life...one that he found himself reluctant to relinquish. Yet, he was powerless to stem the flood of images that would give him no peace.

"Why now?" he muttered, surprised by the bitter resentment in his voice.

The answer to this plaintive query was obvious...the spell that had held him in its thrall for all these years was finally beginning to wane. Either that or the caster had perished taking his or her magic to the grave. The derelict frowned and took another sip of the horrid coffee.

Instinct informed him that while either of these explanations was plausible enough to be true, both were trite and inaccurate. The derelict made a low, forlorn sound in his chest that evoked a wince from Wayman as he watched the man from his place near the window. David (yes, he was reasonably sure that his name had been David at one time) strained his wasted power of concentration and seized upon the intrinsic truth behind his gradual re-emergence into lucidity.

Abruptly, his eyes widened and his cracked lips pulled back into a grimace, so intense was the light burst of illumination. Glancing down, he saw the flesh on his forearms rising into great hackles. With startling swiftness, David had become attuned to the gathering forces...the coalescing energies that were thrumming in the air around the abandoned zone like a web of high voltage wires. There followed a rapid succession of images...a terrible, dark-hued collage of stroboscopic nightmares that the derelict recognized to be fragments of his former life.

First came several books, flipping end over end through the darkness like coins. This was followed by a vista of a small town over which loomed a large black spider. It sat upright, its chitinous black legs kicking frantically at the air as it spun a silken web over the entire town. The strands of web were as thick as a man's forearm and appeared to ooze a thick, syrupy substance. Gradually, they spread to envelope the entire town like a pall. David could see that there were people horrible trapped within the mesh of the grotesque web.

Some of the faces, wide-eyed with terror too great to be articulated, were achingly familiar to the derelict. In his mind, David uttered a shriek of negation, but there was no surcease to the horror. Now he was running blindly through a driving rain in the cold bosom of night. His first thought was that he might be fleeing some unseen predator, its slavering jaws snapping just behind him, but a deeper instinct suggested that his blind charge was a desperate effort to forestall disaster.

Then a face filled the world, with eyes the deepest shade of blue and hair like spun gold. Hers was a beauty of mythical proportions and he rightly concluded that it was for her that he was galloping through the rain like a mad fool.

Across the room, Wayman started to rise, sat down uncertainly, and then stood up again...wanting to intervene but not certain if this would be prudent. In his years of dealing with the homeless, Carcavice had dealt with all manner of mental illness, some benign and some rife with dark menace. This man's affliction did not seem to precisely match anything he'd previously encountered. This derelict struck him as a vessel struggling to contain an ocean of...of recollections, some too poignant.

While a bewildered Wayman looked on, David pressed his palms to his temples, squeezing the sides of his skull as if trying to forcefully silence his internal tormentors. Suddenly, he uttered a piercing shriek and tumbled backwards, striking his head on the floor with a meaty thud.

Carcavice raced to the derelict's aid, suddenly aware that the moment seemed infused with a strange sense of...foreboding was the word that leapt to mind. The man had not been seriously hurt, though his pale blue eyes were glazed and he stared vacantly up at the ceiling. Studying the man's face for any indication of serious trauma, Wayman noted how youthful the derelict appeared. Though his dark hair was sprinkled with a generous smattering of white, his face had magically escaped the ravages of life on the streets. Yet, this man had to be at least fifty years old if he was a day.

Carcavice remembered his grandma talking about something she referred to as the aura of protection. That decidedly odd phrase had left a lingering impact on Wayman. Now, as he gazed down on the unlined face of a man who should bare the indelible signs of every year spent in this hell, that rather unnerving turn of phrase revisited him. If anyone was surrounded by the aura of protection in this merciless place, it was this derelict. Now, as he sprawled on the scarred wooden floor of the hostel, it appeared as though his mantle had vanished.

The man stirred and awareness filtered back into his eyes. Abruptly, he sat up and clutched Wayman's left arm, while staring around the room in wide-eyes terror.

Eventually, his gaze settled on Carcavice and the big man correctly recognized the expression on his face as one of profound excitement. "I...I think I remember my name...David."

Gingerly, David attempted to regain his feet and Wayman helped him onto the nearest wooden chair. In the many years he had known the derelict, he could not recall the man being so animated...so intense. "Can you remember anything else...your last name?"

David shook his head, his expression seething with frustration. "No, dammit, only the name David...but I'm poised on the edge of remembering everything...I'm seeing threads and snatches of the life I lived before I ended up here."

The derelict grimaced and let his face sink into his hands. Carcavice placed his hand on David's shoulder and advised, "Be patient, David. I don't pretend to be any expert, but I think these things come on their own time. Trying to force them might even delay the process."

The man looked up, his eyes burning with anguish. "Something terrible has happened!" He appeared to consider this and then amended, "or is about to happen. Goddamnit, I can't say for certain, but I know it involves people from my past. It's imperative that I remember soon."

"You're exhausted, David," Wayman pointed out, "and agitated as well. You need to rest and calm yourself. Find a cot and get some decent sleep...and maybe some perspective on all this."

The derelict started to object, but then seemed to recognize the prudence of Carcavice's advice. Nodding, he pushed himself heavily to his feet and then trudged towards the staircase. He had just stepped on the first riser, when Carcavice called his name and David turned to him questioningly.

"David, it might be wise to stay close to the hostel for the next couple of days...we're expecting some nasty weather, if you catch my meaning."

David regarded Wayman thoughtfully for several moments and then nodded. Then he turned and trudged up the stairs, his eyes focused inward on the turbulent landscape of his troubled mind.

When he had vanished from sight, Wayman returned to his scrutiny of the rain-soaked streets. He wasn't particularly surprised to discover that he was trembling badly.

4

Ten blocks from the place where Wayman Carcavice sat fretting over the imminent demise of Seattle's abandoned zone, Arturo Richeras was contemplating his own vision of the wasteland's future.

The man across from the Columbian teenager regarded the boy with a thin smile. By any measure, it was glaringly obvious that the youth was insane, but his madness would prove useful in the matter at hand. The man had encountered a hundred such youths in a score of countries. All had shared a similar state of fanatical insanity that could serve a greater purpose.

"What's in the boxes" the boy demanded, his tone surly, yet fraught with curiosity fuelled by a scarcely contained eagerness. This man, with his slicked-back hair and impeccably tailored suit, was the purveyor of wonders...each more spectacular than the last.

"Toys, My young friend! Gifts from my sponsor to you."

The Columbians gaze shifted to the wooden crates, but his hunger was a palpable thing in the dimly lit warehouse. The man followed his gaze and beckoned for the teenager to open one of the crates. Stooping to retrieve a crowbar, Arturo attacked the crate as if it held the secrets of the Kaballah.

Throwing open the lid, Arturo peered in, his eyes widening until it seemed a virtual certainty that his eyeballs would simply tumble out onto his cheeks. With trembling hands, he reached in and drew out a round object some seven inches in diameter and three inches thick. A series of buttons and lights ringed the object and Arturo, who had grown wise in the ways of explosives, correctly deduced that this was a remote arming switch. The device was jet black and despite being rather small, Richeras correctly surmised that it was an extraordinarily destructive bit of hardware.

"What is it?" he heard himself ask, mesmerized by the disc which struck him as one of the most beautiful things he had ever set eyes upon.

The man uttered a spate of humorless laughter. Now, not only did Richeras seem mad, he resembled a living skeleton. "This is the answer to every dream you've ever had. Can you picture a sea of fire, Arturo, stretching from horizon to horizon. These," he held the device up for emphasis, "can help make that dream a reality."

Richeras literally licked his lips as the dwindling circle of Pyronators gathered around the crate to inspect the wonders. Arturo was vaguely aware that some of his circle had deserted over the last few days, but this fact neither disturbed nor infuriated the youth. Instinct informed the Columbian that the Pyronators had just about run their course.

As though divining Arturo's thoughts, the man remarked, "Things are about to change drastically in this little paradise of yours. I assume that you're aware of that?"

Richeras nodded distantly. With the gradual passing of his sanity had come a new sense of animal cunning. He need only sniff the wind to know that sweeping change was imminent.

"Do you really have any sentimental attachment to this shit pit?" the man inquired softly. There was a peculiar lilting quality to his voice that made all things sound reasonable. Richeras shook his head.

"Very good," the man intoned in his velvety, urbane voice. "You see, Arturo, a true predator does not really adapt to change. That is a fallacy propagated by the servile and the idealistic to justify their timidity. Do you grasp my meaning?"

Arturo, who had no real idea what fucking point the man was trying to make, merely nodded. That low, melodic tone made everything seem logical and somehow comforting.

"A true predator is the vehicle of change. He shapes his environment to suit his purpose." The man held a thin attaché case aloft. "Rather than lose control of his surroundings, he would destroy them without hesitation."

With this apocalyptic declaration, he held the case out to Richeras, who accepted it with an expression of glazed reverence. Opening the case, the youth found a miniature computer keyboard and an arming system. Astounded, he glanced up at the man questioningly. The slick smile broadened. "That's right, Arturo, what you hold in your hands is the key to realizing the dreams you've had over the last few weeks. This control console will simultaneously ignite all of the devices in these crates. The result will be a fireball the likes of which this pathetic excuse for a city has never seen.

Richeras' grin became feral, but the man raised a finger of admonition. "Time is short, Arturo. It is essential that you distribute as many of these devices as possible in the next thirty-six hours and be prepared to detonate within the next forty-eight hours."

Richeras conveyed his understanding with a purposeful nod, but his eyes continued to gleam that lunatic gleam.

Again, the man beamed his radiant smile and clapping the Columbian on the shoulder, turned to leave, his leather heels clicking smartly on the concrete. At the door, he paused and looked back at the group of youths, who were regarding the crates of explosives like ravenous jackals.

"My young friends, there is a war coming and this is going to be the scene of the first great battle. There will be a need for fearless warriors and the reward for service will be great."

Then he was gone into the stormy night. Not long after, Arturo and the Pyronators hit the streets and began to sow the seeds of destruction.

5

The easy smile had faded by the time the man left the warehouse and had vanished entirely by the time he reached the street. Dealing with the likes of this Columbian piece of excrement filled the man with disgust. These despicable punks had no sense of elegance or style, but unfortunately, it was necessary to utilize them.

The man, who during his tenure as a human being had been a colonel in the waffen SS, was accustomed to dealing with a more refined breed of servant. Still, his new superiors had never been discriminating in the company they chose to keep. They had made it eminently clear that the Columbians were to play a minor, but critical role in their plan to dispose of the abomination.

The man walked casually along the deserted streets, turning into a service alley that bisected the block. The alley was a microcosm of the city, itself...garbage strewn and disgustingly filthy. Upon reflection, he lamented how it was tragic that the Germans had not won the war...such horrible neglect would not have been tolerated in the fatherland.

The end of the alley terminated in a bricked over service bay at the foot of which was an abandoned storm manhole. The man stood before the perforated grate and bowing his head, began to utter a prayer of summons.

Almost instantly, an opaque red mist began to billow up through the rusty grate. Though the accompanying stench was indescribably foul, the man's face remained impassive. He had long since learned that it was imprudent to display emotion before his volatile superior. At last, a capering curtain of red mist had taken form, spanning the width of the entire alley. It was a dark, bilious red and emitted a dull red effulgence and when a voice issued from its depth, that voice resembled the maddening buzz of a million frantic insects. "Is it done?"

"Yes, they were as eager as lap dogs," the man replied evenly. "I emphasized the need for an expeditious fulfillment of their task. Are we certain she will be here?"

"Yes...the bait is here and she cannot resist its lure," the thing in the mist responded, its tone curt. "Should the mortal fail, I will send forth a host to obliterate the abomination. This matter must be resolved...once and for all. You must insure that our young friend does not falter and is ready to act when the situation demands it."

"It will be done," the man replied briskly. Bowing slightly, he turned and strode off down the alley while the mist retreated into the bowels of the earth from whence it had sprung. Once the man, who had personally overseen the execution of over one hundred thousand Jews in concentration camps all over Eastern Europe, had turned out of the alley and back onto the street, he fell against the wall and began to tremble. "Should the human fail, I will send forth a host to obliterate the abomination."

In the implications of that single pronouncement lay the onset of the apocalypse.

Chapter Twenty Two

1

Both Elizabeth and Cynara crossed quickly to the girl, who had collapsed to the carpeted floor, narrowly missing striking her head on the corner of an oak end table. Even as she lay there, the extent of her shock was immediately evident. Her eyes flickered behind the thin skin of her eyelids and a single vein palpitated wildly along the length of her exposed throat.

Elizabeth tenderly, but effortlessly lifted the girl onto the sofa and smoothed the hair away from her brow.

"Can you hear me, Cassie?" she prompted in a voice fraught with concern and anguish. Again, she was struck by how quickly she had come to love this wayward soul, though the thought was not without its troublesome aspects. In her situation, anyone who fell under the umbrella of her love would also require the mantle of her protection. Thus far, protection was something she had failed miserably in providing.

Abruptly, the girl sat up and began trashing wildly, striking Elizabeth with a series of wild, harmless blows. Cassie's eyes were blank and when they fell upon Elizabeth, they displayed no sign of recognition. Simpson feared that she was slipping back into the disconnected state that had preceded her murderous rage in Colorado, but as she drew the girl to her, cognizance gradually filtered into the exquisite gray eyes.

Awareness, however, did little to attenuate Cassie's distress. Her struggles degenerated into a hysterical rush of tears.

"Cassie, please tell me what's wrong, dear?" Elizabeth pleaded. The girl turned her gaze on Elizabeth and now her eyes were alight with naked terror. "They'll find me! Don't you see...they'll find me now!"

Her voice collapsed into an inarticulate wail of anguish that both terrified and bewildered Elizabeth. It was her first thought that the girl's panic centered on the murders she'd committed and her flight through the central United States, Elizabeth attempted to calm the girl. "Cassie, no one knows about the things that happened, except for me, and I have no intention of revealing what I know. From what I can garner from the news broadcast, the police may even believe that I'm holding you against your will."

The girl shook her head vehemently. "That's not what I mean. My parents will find me. Even if the police don't...they'll come looking for me and drag me back."

Cassandra started to shake as though her body had fallen under the thrall of a series of violent convulsions. Elizabeth doubted that Cassie's fears were valid. Slime such as Cassie's parents weren't likely to waste a thought on their missing daughter, much less traipse across the country looking for her. It was more likely that both were delighted that she was no longer their burden. Still, Elizabeth's certitude did nothing to allay Cassie's consuming terror. For her, the parents were the living embodiment of every evil nightmare that she would ever suffer. The girl had left a string of bodies across the country as tangible evidence of just how badly the two monsters had damaged her.

"Cassandra, your parents are not going to harm you," Elizabeth intoned firmly, gripping the girl's shoulders firmly. Cassie shook her head, hot tears spilling down her cheeks in a deluge. "They will. He might not, but she will. She told me that if I ever ran, she would find me and make me sorry I'd defied her."

Unexpectedly, the girl lurched to her feet and tried to pull free of Elizabeth's grasp with the intention of making for the door. Elizabeth effortlessly pulled her back and pressed into her until their faces were only inches apart. Something about the emphatic gleam in Elizabeth's eyes must have managed to surmount the girl's terror because she went utterly still, her attention fixed squarely upon the immortal. When Elizabeth spoke, her voice was cold...bereft of all emotion. "Cassie, I'll be brutally frank...if I ever lay eyes on your parents, I intend to kill them both. Neither one of them will ever have the chance to harm you again. Do you understand?"

The two women held each other's embrace for several moments and then Cassandra sagged into Elizabeth's arms. She cried tears of abject misery, her face pressed tightly into Elizabeth's neck. As Elizabeth held the girl, recognizing the desperation implicit in that clutching grip, her eyes met Cynara's. The dark beauty was regarding her closely, her expression a stupefied blend of exasperation and wonder. She arched an eyebrow questioningly and Elizabeth beckoned her forward. As Saravic approached, Elizabeth extended her hand. Grasping the other woman's intention, Cynara placed her palm in Simpson's and clasped it firmly.

Immediately, Cynara's mind was flooded by the graphic and disturbing images that Cassie had conveyed to Elizabeth during that stormy night in the Colorado wilderness. As Elizabeth watched Cynara her dark eyes narrowed and her expression inured. Finally, she nodded tightly and released Simpson's hand. Then she glanced down at Cassie and her expression softened.

' _Pity?'_ Elizabeth thought, truly astounded by the possibility. Surely that was wrong? Pity and sympathy were emotions that existed far beyond the old Cynara's rigid sensibilities. Still, this soft, speculative light in Saravic's eyes could only be attributed to one emotion...compassion. The idea staggered Elizabeth and she was powerless to suppress the radiant smile that rose to her lips. Cynara regarded Elizabeth questioningly and then responded with a tentative smile of her own. It was in that moment that Elizabeth Simpson realized that she was capable of forgiving Cynara Saravic despite the enormous damage the former demon had inflicted upon her.

Elizabeth finally held the girl out to arm's length and tenderly brushed the tears from the girl's cheeks. "Cassie, you're going to need a few hours sleep before we move again."

The girl shook her head morosely and the pain in her ethereal blue eyes wrenched Elizabeth's heart. "I can't..."

"You must and I'll help you...but you must trust me, Cassie."

The girl nodded, automatically imparting her trust to Elizabeth without question or hesitation. Elizabeth placed the tip of her index finger in the hollow of Cassie's temple and offered the girl a re-assuring smile. Abruptly, Cassie's eyes widened as something incisive, yet not unpleasant, pushed its way into her mind. Like a gentle balm, it pushed deeper into her consciousness and soon her terror dissipated like mist before a strong wind. Another moment passed and she could scarcely recall why she'd been so frightened to begin with. Eventually, all coherent thought became impossible as a lulling sound...one that reminded her of a gently breaking surf...filled her mind.

Elizabeth continued to smile at the girl, comforting Cassie through proximity and force of personality alone. With the gentle sounds of breaking waving echoing in her ears and those indescribably beautiful blue eyes hovering in her mind, Cassie drifted down into sleep.

Lovingly, Elizabeth laid the girl upon the sofa and folded her right arm across her chest.

"You've refined that particular ability quite admirably," Cynara observed, genuinely impressed by the ease with which Elizabeth had taken control of the girl's mind. "I can only wonder what other skills you've honed."

"All but the truly important ones," Elizabeth replied in a self-deprecating grimace. "Perhaps creatures such as you and I require a dozen lifetimes just to develop the fundamental skills required to be human. Actually, assuming control of Cassie's mind is sadly enough a simple matter. The girl is so impressionable and fragile. Despite being so horribly damaged by people who were supposed to love her, Cassie is almost desperate to impart her trust." Still gazing at the sleeping girl, she whispered, "I may be as bad of an abuser as the monsters who did this to her."

"Now, you're being maudlin...a state that doesn't really suit you well," Cynara chided mildly. "If anything, you are the girl's salvation. She's shrewd enough to realize this and this is why she clings to you like a vine."

Elizabeth grunted doubtfully and Cynara experienced a twinge of sorrow that her friend could be so close to open despair. "There is much that we should discuss, Elizabeth and the time is growing short."

Simpson drew a weary breath and nodded reluctantly. She had deliberately avoided contemplating what was ahead of her, but avoidance was a luxury she could no longer afford. Gesturing towards the suites second bedroom, she climbed heavily to her feet and left Cassie to her dreamless slumber

2

Cynara followed her former lover and closed the bedroom door behind her. The two women scrutinized each other silently for several moments. Elizabeth was forced to concede that Cynara spirit had only enhanced Karnalla Mansley's physical perfection. Could it really be that the turning had expunged the dark side of Cynara's nature? Simpson fervently hoped so. "Obviously, there is no way I can begin to thank you for what you did at the truck stop."

Saravic glided closer to Simpson and brazenly cup Elizabeth high right breast. "If you're game, I believe I can think of a few delightful methods of remuneration."

"You are absolutely incorrigible," Simpson muttered, though the tone was kind and she made no more to break contact. Cynara laughed, gave the enticing breast an appreciative squeeze, allowed her hand to linger for a moment and then drop away with a sigh.

Cynara spun away and paced to the far side of the room to conceal how deeply the momentary contact had affected her. "I suppose there is no need to impress upon you the immensity of your predicament. You've been exposed and that exposure is going to bring your enemies down upon you like a pack of jackals with the scent of a fresh kill in their nostrils. If we're being totally candid and practical, the police are of no real concern. You could simply avoid them by shifting shapes or if the need arose, you could just kill them."

Elizabeth recoiled at the mere suggestion of this and Cynara held her hand up in a gesture of placation. "I realize you have an intense aversion to this and I'm not suggesting it's a course of action you should even take. I'm merely detailing your options. The authorities cannot really prevent you from reaching Seattle. I'm sure their still struggling with the improbability of all that's happened."

Saravic pursed her full lips, a gesture that was unintentionally erotic. "Still, the drive to Seattle will be very much like running a gauntlet."

Simpson nodded her agreement. Rapid movement was critical, but last night's disaster would make a sprint to Seattle virtually impossible. She experienced a rush of black hatred for her daughter-in-law, but quickly subjugated it, knowing that Contayza could not really be held accountable for her actions. "What do you suggest I do?"

Careful not to reveal her delight at Elizabeth's need, Cynara crossed to the bed and sat down, encircling her friend's shoulder with one long arm. "My first and most vehement advice would be to forget the entire misguided thing. Your first priority should be simple survival. Don't go to Seattle...instead, find a place to hide until this blows over."

Clutching Elizabeth's wrist, she intoned, "You're first obligation is to yourself."

Simpson shook her head adamantly. "That's not even an option. I'm going to Seattle to find David. The only way I'll be stopped is destruction."

Cynara searched her friend's deep blue eyes and saw that she would not be dissuaded. "I hope you know how much I envy this Stillman," she whispered thickly. "Alright if you're going to go, at least lose the baggage."

Simpson glanced at Cynara quizzically, her tone suddenly brusque. "What do you mean ' _baggage_ '?"

"Both the girl and Contayza. Time is of the essence and they will only slow you down."

Elizabeth shrugged off Saravic's arm and springing to her feet, crossed over to the window, where she gazed out at the coming dawn. "How can I possibly expect you to grasp the concept of loyalty? Do you have any idea of how fragile Cassandra is?"

Cynara averted her eyes, but an angry Simpson persisted in her criticism. "How long do you suppose it would be before Cassie reverted back to a schizophrenic killer if I simply abandoned her? Without me, the girl has two possible futures...life in a mental institution or death at the hands of a psychotic predator. I will not be responsible for that...the girl stays with me."

Cynara nodded, speaking softly, "I suppose I deserved that. It's going to take me a time to become accustomed to your lofty standard of idealism."

Simpson glowered, but quickly realized that Saravic's remark had been in no way sardonic. Cynara pressed the flat of her palm to her heart. "I'm trying to grasp the higher human concepts, but they are very alien to me. You have to understand that I've never really been human. Whereas once you were a kind and compassionate mortal, I was always a turbulent, disdainful brat who despised sentimentality and love. After the turning, I found the so-called higher emotions ludicrous and contemptible. The sight of other men or women intoxicated with compassion for their fellow human beings filled me with scorn. I lived my entire demon life believing that the only true love was self-love."

"And am I to take it that this has somehow changed?" Simpson challenged pointedly.

Cynara inhaled sharply, both stung and irked by the scathing barb. Forcing herself to remain calm, she asked, "Do you really have so little understanding of what happened in Los Angeles?"

Cynara's voice was soft and suffused by genuine wonder, though her extraordinary dark eyes beamed intensely. Instead of allowing Elizabeth to replied, she began to elaborate. "I actually possessed your body and for the briefest moment, I came to comprehend just what it was like to see the world...to view life from your perspective. I was terrified, but I was also exhilarated. I knew that love was a tangible, awesome force and not just fodder for deluded romantics. Do you have any idea how bewildering, but utterly magnificent that experience was? I doubt you'll accept this so readily, but in that single moment, the old Cynara Saravic...the insidious miscreant...was scoured away."

Elizabeth returned her gaze to the window, but continued to listen intently. Cynara drifted closer, her voice losing volume until her words were nothing more than a lulling whisper that forced Simpson to concentrate on each syllable.

"Do you know there was a time when I became obsessed with the idea that you were to be my bane?" Saravic laughed, though her voice was tremulous. "When I turned you that night in Semelar, I did so with the belief that I would eventually mold you into the image that I'd constructed in my mind. In reality, it was I who was gradually changed, though my evil nature fought that transformation right up to those last moments in Chevru. When I allowed you to kill me, I had come as close as possible to genuine humanity without actually achieving it."

Elizabeth regarded Cynara sharply, her blue eyes a blaze of luminous light as she hovered on the brink of revelation. Cynara unexpectedly grasped Simpson shoulders. "The turning in Los Angeles endowed me with a sense of humanity I never before possessed. What's more, the process reversed the roles we shared for twenty years."

Simpson tilted her head, now clearly perplexed. Cynara offered her friend a decidedly sly smile. "Where once you were mine to command, now it is I who must pay fealty to you."

Simpson vigorously shook her head in negation. "No, Cynara, you owe me nothing. The only thing I require of you is friendship and a promise that you keep those infamous claws retracted whenever possible."

"My friendship you will have eternally. As for my claws, they are at your disposal should you require them," Saravic intoned with undisguised eagerness to serve.

Elizabeth's expression darkened perceptibly. "I have no desire to harm anyone, but there is one favor I would ask..."

"Ask."

"Cassandra...I'm frightened for the girl. I promised I would protect her and help her live a life of relative normalcy." The last thought evoked a spate of derisive laughter. "Instead, I've plunged her life into total turmoil and placed her in grave danger."

Suddenly, she paused and gazed down at her hands. "There are times when I'm thoroughly astounded by how I've reduced my life to an absolute shambles. If that isn't enough, I've cast a pall over everyone who's ever loved me...you speak of banes...that describes me perfectly."

Cynara watched Elizabeth in silence. During the years of their relationship, Elizabeth had never exhibited any capacity for despair. "Elizabeth, saintliness isn't the exalted state it's reputed to be. You've imposed expectations upon yourself that not even an immortal could bare. It's quite admirable to attempt to atone for your sins by becoming the mother protector of wayward souls, but please believe me that a little selfishness is in order at this precise moment."

Simpson shook her head. "I can't abandon Cassie, Cynara, but you're quite right...I may not be able to protect her for much longer. This is where I need your help..."

Simpson trailed off...momentarily questioning the prudence of what she was about to propose. She gazed at Saravic, appraising the statuesque beauty. On impulse, she reached her decision and blurted her plea. "If something should happen to me, I want you to take Cassandra under your wing. You spoke of your new found humanity...I'm begging you to channel that compassion into the girl's spiritual healing."

"Do you realize what you're asking of me?" Cynara exclaimed, staggered by the concept of being someone's keeper.

Elizabeth's gaze did not falter. "Essentially I'm asking you to become Cassie's surrogate mother, with all the obligations that position entails. I want you to lavish the girl with love and compassion and banish the darkness from her soul."

Saravic spun toward the window, her eyes wide with incredulity and her mind reeling at the prospect of something that not so long ago would have been unthinkable. ' _A mother? She actually expects me to play mother to a girl who is perched precariously on the razor's edge of madness._ '

Quite unexpectedly, the supremely confident Cynara Saravic was assailed by a powerful wave of doubt and inadequacy. During her five years of exile, she had imagined her return to the world in many ways, but never in the role Elizabeth was now suggesting. Furthermore, Cynara was loathe committing herself to the role of benefactress if it meant that Elizabeth must die in the process. She intended to say as much, but instead declared, "Yes...well why not? Who would ever have imagined Cynara Saravic in the role of loving mother?"

Elizabeth beamed a smile of delight and gratitude which faltered with the grim certainty that Cynara would be called upon to honor her vow. Somehow, she managed to suppress the grimace that was rising to twist her expression into a despairing frown.

"Yes, Cassandra may become my companion," Cynara reiterated, "but this is one promise to you that I quite frankly have no intention of keeping. I'm going to do everything I can to see that you extricate yourself from this trap unscathed. You and I are a breed unto ourselves...probably the only two unaligned immortals in existence and you are the only person I might count as my friend."

"What do I do, Cynara?"

"Allowing that you have no intention of simply vanishing, you have to find a way to conceal your identity. Your beauty radiates like a beacon and seeing how your face has become fodder for the national news media, not to mention every level of law enforcement, it's not likely that you'd make it any further than thirty mile along anything other than a cart track without being spotted."

"I can't afford to waste time," Simpson insisted. "You, yourself, told me that David's in immediate danger."

Saravic could feel a scowl of distaste forming at the mention of that hateful name, but instead forced herself to smile. "That is why a makeover is in order...not only for you, but for Cassandra as well. Remember, the police have no real evidence to confirm that either of you survived the blast. Even if they did, they suspect that you're traveling in the company of the girl. The four of us will go to Seattle together. That, in combination with your changed appearance, should succeed in keeping you effectively concealed until we reach Seattle and you've concluded your business there. What you do beyond that is entirely up to you."

"Do you really believe there will be a ' _beyond that_ '?" Elizabeth inquired, her tone somber.

"Absolutely!" Cynara insisted assiduously. "I'm going to help you find your David Stillman. Certainly, I'm obligated to do that much for you. As I've said, my primary concern is not the authorities, but rather my former masters. There game has been uncharacteristically deft and subtle thus far."

"What do you think they'll try?"

Cynara shook her head. "It's difficult to predict, but I suspect that your daughter-in-law was a mere preliminary for their main strike. Whoever beguiled her into attempting to kill you knew that she could never succeed despite her awesome telekinetic power."

"Then why send her at all?"

"Simple psychological shock value," Cynara explained and Simpson nodded somberly. "Turning your family against you is unnerving to say the least. If you would have been forced to kill Contayza, would you have been able to live with the guilt?"

Elizabeth considered this for a moment and then shook her head.

"From the perspective of strategy, their approach is artfully evil," Cynara observed. "Fortunately, they didn't allow for an intervention."

"Then it's likely that the next attempt will be made by a supernatural entity?"

"Again, it's difficult to forecast, but whoever they send against you will have the capacity to destroy you."

Elizabeth sighed and placed a long index finger along her full lower lip, drawing it down in a gesture that was unintentionally provocative. Cynara noticed the gesture and felt the lust come upon her in a torrential rush.

"One final question...if I survive the next few days, what do you recommend I do?"

Saravic glanced pensively at her friend. She had entertained this question constantly since Elizabeth had first approached her in exile. She had reached a certain conclusion...motivated purely by self-interest, but something cautioned her against sharing this at that particular moment.

There was an aura of predestination about this journey to Seattle. "My instinct tells me that the climax of this misadventure is going to be played out in that water-logged, wretched little city. If they fail to destroy you there, it is imperative that you vanish from the face of the earth...I mean that in most literal terms than you can possibly imagine."

Elizabeth arched her eyebrow, clearly perplexed, "Explain."

"If nothing else, my former masters are tenacious...they do not forgive nor forget. If Seattle does not yield the result they desire, they will simply try again at some other time...be it a year of a century, but they will not stop until you've been destroyed."

"Why...why keep pursuing this dogged vendetta?" Simpson seethed indignantly.

"As I've explained, they're motivated both by fear and revenge."

"Basically, you're saying that this will never be over...that I can expect to be a fugitive for my entire existence," Elizabeth summarized bitterly. The prospect of spending an eternity in terrified flight, never knowing what form the next menace would assume, made the prospect of continued living hardly seemed worth the effort.

To her consternation, Cynara merely smiled. "Sweet, ingenuous Elizabeth...this may be the one time when life forces you to be ruthless and self-serving. In your present form, I can guarantee you that your life will be one of hounded flight and constant fear. There is a way to insure that you can life in relative peace, though not without a rather expensive price."

When Elizabeth did not respond, Cynara leaned forward and trailed her fingers lightly down Elizabeth torso. "As exquisite as it is, I'm afraid you'll have to give up this vessel of flesh."

Elizabeth blinked and recoiled in revulsion. With the color draining from her cheeks, she growled, "No...never again!"

"Never is a long time," Cynara persisted. "Especially for an immortal. It is going to be impossible to cling to your morality, Elizabeth."

"What we did in Los Angeles was murder and no euphemism can change that...cold and ruthless murder," Elizabeth retorted hotly.

First the first time since the conversation began, Cynara displayed some sign of temper. "Bullshit! I refuse to wallow in remorse. That would be ludicrous and hypocritical. For all the opulence and decadence, Karnalla Mansley was an ambulatory corpse. Her soul was an irreparable void. What we did wasn't cold murder...it was an act of mercy."

Elizabeth's lips had pulled into an angry, obdurate slash and she averted her eyes to the window. Cynara deliberately imposed herself in Simpson's line of sight. "Karnalla's entire life was an empty charade. Her grief must have been so insufferably sterile. Even the source of her guilt and shame...her murder of Orienne...was an utter fraud."

Elizabeth searched Saravic's face for some sign of deception, but found only the faint stirrings of pity. "Orienne was an expensive and erudite prostitute, but a prostitute nonetheless. In addition, she was hopelessly addicted to morphine...an addiction that would eventually prove fatal. You see, it was Orienne who was driving the night the pair went over the embankment. She was wired to near incoherence and still insisted that Mansley allow her to drive. Karnalla was thoroughly beguiled and could deny her nothing. Therein is her only cause for guilt. Orienne is portrayed as a divine creature when she was in fact a parasite."

"How could you possibly know this?" Elizabeth demanded, though the tone of obstinate denial had ebbed from her voice.

"Everything I just told you is embossed in the very fabric of Mansley's heart. Mansley was an emotional derelict. She knew precisely what Orienne was and chose to compartmentalize that knowledge. Rather than sully Orienne's legend, she elected to take the blame for the accident. The refusal to accept the truth made Mansley's demise inevitable."

"That's unspeakably horrible," Simpson remarked softly.

"Karnalla Mansley's life was untenable," Cynara repeated. "What we've done is an act of mercy."

Finally, Simpson sighed and nodded in concession. She raised her face to Cynara and something in her wan expression made her appear heartbreakingly fragile and lovely. Saravic shuddered from the need that abruptly welled up in her heart like a tempest. She was not particularly surprised by the reaction. Something about Elizabeth honest displays of vulnerability had always affected Cynara like the most compelling of aphrodisiacs.

"You're suggesting that I find someone like Mansley, aren't you?" Elizabeth inquired listlessly.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting," Cynara answered quietly. "You'd be shocked by the number of people who are just like her...unfortunates for whom continued existence is a prospect too onerous to suffer."

Simpson merely nodded and Saravic found that she could not gauge her friend's sentiments on the matter. She could only wonder if the idea of such predatory behavior was simply beyond the noble Elizabeth's ability to contemplate. Fervently hoping that it was not the case, Cynara decided to allow the matter to rest. Instead, Cynara decided that it was time to broach another subject that had preoccupied her thoughts since that moment of rebirth in Los Angeles. "Elizabeth, should you find your David Stillman...or something should happen to him, what will you do?"

"I honestly don't know. I've deliberately avoided contemplating our possible future since you first told me that he was still alive. I can almost empathize with how Karnalla structured her lost lover as an edifice of grief and guilt. My family is lost to me because my mere presence places them at risk. Of course, I have Cassandra and the vow I swore to her in Colorado."

Simpson fell silent and Cynara watched her speculatively. Softly, she murmured, "You also have me."

Simpson glanced toward the dark lady and offered her a tentative smile. Cynara ventured closer, holding the other woman's gaze. "Fate has brought us together, Elizabeth, though this time for a far kinder, gentler purpose. I want to be your friend. I hope I've demonstrated that I want to be yours on whatever terms you'll accept me. I have no idea if this new deferential attitude is the result of the turning or if it's something I've developed by being a part of your soul for five years. Whatever the reason, I find myself wanting to subjugate my will to another living being for the first time in my entire existence. I want to give myself to you unreservedly and that has not changed since the night I allowed you to defeat me in Chevru."

Tears glistened in the dark jewels of Mansely's eyes. They trailed over the carved ridges of her high cheek bones like liquid diamond, augmenting her infinite beauty. "It's going to be a few hours before I can purchase the things I need to get you to Seattle. In that time...I want to make love to you."

Elizabeth began to object, the words of refusal actually taking shape in the back of her throat, but the gentle, pleading expression set on Cynara's face in tandem with Elizabeth's own exigent need for the warmth of another's touch, held those words at bay. Instead, she slowly stood and extended her arms to Cynara in a silent invitation. As the fever of anticipation welled, the still rational part of her mind reminded her that this particular scene had been played before. Elizabeth rejected its council...mesmerized with delight as Mansley stepped unabashedly from her clothes.

As she preened, Cynara intoned breathlessly, "You and I were born to this, Elizabeth."

Stepping forward, she slowly began to undress the shorter blond, luxuriating in the dizzying feel of the familiar flesh. When Simpson was at last naked, Cynara drew her into a passionate embrace and kissed her deeply. Cynara groaned as her hands reacquainted themselves with the magnificent landscape of her lover's body. Thus entwined, the two sank languorously to the floor, indulging in an interlude that would prove all too brief in light of what was to follow.

3

On the night that Contayza's Prowzi's demon drove her to a rampage of destruction at a secluded truck stop in Northern California, Emon Drury found himself wide awake in the deep bosom of mother night. His wife and children had gone to visit relatives in Texas, leaving him alone in the Tudor mansion that now seemed cavernous and oddly forbidding with their departure.

Emon abruptly sat forward in his leather wingback and snatched up the bottle of Chevas Regal that stood half empty on the oak end table. He carelessly splashed three fingers of the expensive scotch into his glass. During the course of his solitary contemplation, the former revisionist church elder had lost count of how many times he had repeated this process.

He raised his glass to the darkness of his den and declared gloomily, "Here's to the passing of a lucrative enterprise."

Then Emon drained half the glass with a petulant snap, grimacing as the ice cubes grated against his expensive teeth. The he slumped back into his chair, mourning the passing of his most lucrative venture...the Revisionist Church.

Drury had passed the last several weeks in a stroboscopic flicker of nightmarish disbelief. I had all began with Walker's gruesome death and Ingram's revelation of his plan to rescue America from the forces of darkness. He recalled that something decidedly strange and terrifying had transpired on that fateful night, but his scotch-addled mind obstinately refused to bring that particular memory into focus.

That seemingly meaningless conclave had signified the commencement of the ruin of everything that Drury had labored to create.

Emon Drury...dubbed the accountant by his fellow elders...had been the financial mastermind behind Gregor Ingram's rapidly expanding religious empire. While Gregor had devised a system of dour dogma that appealed to the growing legions of Americans who were desperate for a return to a climate of higher morality, Drury had concocted a way of turning that dogma into a steady deluge of hard currency. The results had exceeded even Emon's most optimistic projections and as he sat in an English Tudor that sprawled over seven thousand square feet, Drury's personal worth had surpassed the quarter billion mark.

While the sudden decline of his carefully designed network of funds was unfortunate, the demise of the Revisionist Church was not what had compelled the Irishman to flee sleep as though from the prince of hell, himself. Immediately after Ingram had broadcast his message inciting Christians across America to commit murder and acts of sedition against the government, federal agents of a half dozen agencies had landed upon the Atlanta headquarters with both feet. To their chagrin, these agencies discovered that Ingram had shrewdly anticipated their coming. What they found was an empire that had been gutted of everything of value. Their attempts to freeze the Church's monetary assets were met with similar failure. Even in his growing madness, Gregor had retained enough presence of mind to liquidate everything he could and transfer all personal funds to places far beyond the reach of all federal agencies.

Frustrated, these agencies had sought out the remaining church elders upon whom to vent their wrath. Like Ingram, most had chosen to vanish into the scenery. Only Drury had remained and he had produced copies of his letter of resignation which he had submitted ten days before the agents had burst through the studio doors. That crackdown had derailed the most lucrative money train in the history of religious television.

None of this had disturbed Drury, who had been fastidious in distancing himself from any activity that could be even remotely construed as being illegal. Nor was he truly troubled by the sudden death of his cash cow. He would never need for money and a slick, glib Irishman could always contrive a new scheme to keep his pockets well-lined.

The fact that he had helped create a religion that was essentially a massive scam did not play on Drury's conscience. If Emon subscribed to any religion it was the worship of pragmatism. If people were gullible enough to fall for the nonsense disseminated by the Revisionist Church, then so be it. Had it not been the Revisionist Church, it would have been some other organization. Emon was convinced that a certain segment of the population had been born to play the role of the dupe. They drifted through life falling victim to one ludicrous scam after the other. Emon had no compunction about relieving them of their cash, even suspecting that...somewhere deep pit of their pathetic souls...these wretches actually derived a certain perverse pleasure in being scammed...in playing the eternal victim.

Of course, there existed a certain portion of the congregation who believed that Gregor Ingram was a torch bearer in the darkness...that he could restore America to its former state of righteousness. For these deluded fools, Emon Drury had nothing but utter contempt. These were the fanatical shock troopers who were waging a lunatic's holy war all over the country even now...gleefully doling out violent retribution to anyone they labeled as a heathen or heretic. Emon despised these zealots and abhorred their glassy-eyed, sanctimonious fervor. In their extremity, there was no heinous act they would not hesitate to commit as demonstrated by what had happened in Vermont.

No, the church and its rapid demise were of no concern to Emon. It filled him with a cursory sort of sadness and little else. The thing that had driven Drury to send his family packing and kept him wide awake night after night could be summarized in a single succinct word...retribution.

Since he'd first viewed the horrific aftermath of the Vermont massacre, Drury could not escape the terrifying certainty that there would be a moment of atonement for that appalling slaughter of those unfortunate women. It was shortly after viewing the CNN video of the retreat grounds that Drury decided he could have no further part in Ingram's lunacy.

Whenever he succeeded in falling asleep, Drury was plagued by nightmares too terrifying to describe. Harrowing screams of agony and the high, eldritch stench of burning flesh wafted through this nocturnal torment, driving Emon to fear for his sanity. Still, Drury believed that these nightly excursions to hell would pass as his sense of guilt gradually abated. What would not relent was the implacable fear that he and the others would not go unpunished for Gregor's campaign of terror.

In his nightmare, women were lying in writhing piles of ruined flesh. Like Golgotha, three crosses had been erected on a mound of blackened earth. Dry straw had been arranged around the base of each of these crosses, upon which were hung three naked women all wearing identical expressions of agony and fear. Three hooded figures emerged from the darkness, all sporting obscenely prominent erections and brandishing burning torches.

At the instruction of an unseen speaker, the three laid the torches on the straw and stepped nimbly out of range as the dry matting ignited to engulf the three women, who cried out for a merciful end to their suffering. Watching the three figures writhe and twist like brilliant orange torches, the three hooded figures erupted in volcanic orgasms that drove them to their knees like praying supplicants.

At once, a scouring wind began to blow, raising great sheets of sand and sending the now terrified supplicants scurrying in abject terror. Like a celestial spotlight, the moon emerged from behind the purple thunder heads, immersing the Golgotha in eerie silver light.

A titanic female voice filled the world then. "There shall be a day of accounting for this atrocity. I vow that none responsible shall escape my wrath!"

As if to demonstrate the sincerity of her vow, the three hooded figures erupted into argent flailing pillars of flames that reminded the sleeping Drury of ghastly marionettes. It was to their shrewish wails of agony that Emon Drury had jerked awake every night since the Vermont massacre.

That apocalyptic voice, rife with omnipotence and immutable fury, had been the voice of their goddess. Whether Artemis was an illusory idol was of little consequence as Drury could not escape the certainty that these nightmares were warnings of an inexorable tide of vengeance that was rising to sweep him away. No atrocity of the magnitude committed in Vermont could go unpunished and though he had not been involved in any aspect of that ill-advised act of evil, Emon had little doubt that the goddess' vengeance would not be discriminating.

Drury was about to refill his scotch glass when the library was bathed in a blinding argent glow that originated somewhere beyond the large den windows. There was an effulgence about the glow that informed Emon that its source was not earthly. Despite the large quantity of Chevas Regal that he'd consumed, Emon found himself totally sober as if terror had stripped the numbing layers of inebriation down to the stark core of primal fear.

In that brief, flickering moment, Drury understood that the pagan goddess had chosen him as the starting point of her campaign of vengeance and outside his windows there now stood the instrument by which that vengeance would be delivered.

Still, he retained enough presence of mind not to succumb to the grip of outright panic. Beneath his dapper exterior there dwelt the soul of a consummate survivor. Like any true Irishman, he vowed that whatever had come to claim him would not have him without a savage fight. The searing argent brilliance came again, this time accompanied by a distinct hiss and crackle that reminded Drury of the plaintive cry of downed power lines.

Willing himself to his feet, Drury hurried to the window and squinted out into the blinding glare and as he did, large brooding thunder clouds occluded the moon, plunging the rear courtyard of his estate into impenetrable darkness. Despite his inability to see, Drury could sense the presence of the intruder.

Emon quickly made his way out of the den, snapping off lights as he went. As he crept along the ground floor's central hallway, he uttered a single command that plunged the entire house into darkness.

Avoiding obstacles by memory, he made his way to a tiny room that exited from his office. Kicking the door closed with his left foot, he switched on the light in the windowless enclosure.

Home invasion had made a frightening entry into the American psyche in the last part of the Twentieth century. Its popularity had risen as the old century gave way to the new. For Emon Drury, the term filled him with an atavistic dread too large to be articulated. Perhaps rape might be a pale facsimile, but he doubted that even brutal rape could compare with the utter degradation of having one's private world invaded by demented savages who, like the pirates of yore, were intent upon total plunder in every sense of the word. Very often these incidents would leave entire families dead, slaughtered in ways too repulsive to imagine.

Drury had seized upon this ugly social blight until it had become his consuming fear and consequently, his estate was protected by the most elaborate security system a private individual could purchase.

Now, he prayed that his paranoia would save his life.

Sitting behind the control console, Drury first depressed the button that would raise the system violation alarm at the nearest precinct. When installing the state advocated system, he had been assured that response time would never exceed five minutes maximum.

Next, Emon retrieved a new 30 round semi-automatic Beretta from the top left drawer. Pressing two further buttons on the console, he fled the room and ran back to his den, where he could best view the results of his actions.

As he stood in the recess of the room's darkness, Drury began to smile...his immediate fear relenting, if only a notch.

The rear yard was a splendor that was the result of his wife's intensive love and labor (not to mention a significant quantity of Drury's money). Stone paths cut through a vast expanse of immaculately maintained garden. Each path was set with a different cut of quarried stone and line with groomed shrubs that were indigenous to the area. Now, the entire magnificent yard was bathed in the harsh glare of hundreds of halogen lights that would assist the motion sensitive cameras in detecting any intruder, no matter how small of stealthy. Drury's gaze slowly swept over the rear grounds, but he could spot nothing other than a strange argent flare that would occasionally boil up from the rear of his property.

Emon drew a deep, tremulous sigh and stepped away from the window. Despite being rather puzzling, the light was innocuous enough and he suddenly realized just how profoundly he was being affected by his nightmares. He was thinking that perhaps it was time to make a clean break, not only from the Revisionist Church, but from the entire American southland, when the first of the dogs raced into view.

Emon quickly pressed his face against the glass. Clutching the gun to his chest, he no longer bothered to conceal himself in the room's shadow. He recalled pressing two buttons back on the security console, the first of which had activated the lights and cameras in addition to activating the electrified fence that delineated the property. The second button had activated the release gate of the rear dog pens. As Drury watched, mesmerized by their power and grace five Rottweilers exploded around the corner of the building and down the center path.

If someone did manage to breech the high-spiked rear fence, they would soon find themselves confronted with five well-trained, well-conditioned killing machines. Drury found himself briefly pitying the poor bastards.

Soon the five guard dogs had disappeared from sight, sprinting headlong down the slope that fell away to the rear fence. Emon tensed in anticipation of the cries of terror and abnegation that were bound to commence any second now.

Instead, there followed a period of eerie silence, punctuated by a flare of argent more brilliant than any thus far. Abruptly, the night came alive with a series of harrowing shrieks that Drury immediately recognized as those of an animal in extreme pain. There followed another argent flare and then another...each punctuated by a horrible whine of agony. Scant second later, the surviving two dogs raced over the crest of the slope, heading back in the direction of their pen.

Drury cursed and backed away from the window, brandishing the 9mm as though it was a talisman.

"Where are those cops, Goddamnit?" he croaked. In the time-distorting clutches of terror, he did not perceive that only two minutes had passed since he first activated the alarm.

As he gazed on, every light in the rear yard simultaneously exploded with a hollow pop. A booming female voice issued from the ensuing darkness, filling Emon's head like the thunder of a thousand cannons. "Your time of judgment has come, Emon Drury...just as it will come for all who worked their evil upon my beloved daughters."

Just then, a silver blur appeared over the crest of the slope, converging directly upon the bank of windows behind which Emon now cowered. Emon uttered a high, shrewish scream and attempted to back away, but his feet became entangled and he tumbled heavily to the carpeted floor. The Beretta discharged upon impact, its report huge within the confines of the den.

Drury's ungainly movement may well have temporarily saved his life as the bank of windows exploded inward in a thousand shards of glass and something burst into the room.

Drury screamed again and discharged the entire remaining rounds of the clip into the figure that now stood motionless on the opposite side of the room. The figure absorbed the remaining twenty-nine rounds impassively. Drury, registering that the bullets had proven ineffective, began to babble. The silver figure, which glowed from some internal source, extended its right arm and curled its long fingers in a gesture of summons. As a helpless Drury looked on in wide-eyed wonder, the gun was wrenched from his grasp and flew across the room, slapping into the intruder's open palm. The figure closed those long fingers around the weapon and immediately the metal flared like a strip of phosphorus and ran between the clutching fingers.

The super-heated liquid dripped to the carpet, which quickly burst into tendrils of flame.

Emon gazed at the intruder in stunned silence. The figure was decidedly feminine...its beauty ethereal in magnitude. Quite naked, its body was statuesque and exquisitely proportioned. His eyes were drawn to the up-thrust breasts, the skin of which gleamed lustrous silver. The muscles of her long, tapered legs danced fetchingly as she slowly crossed the room. Despite his apprehension, Drury found himself becoming aroused.

Then his gaze shifted to her face. She possessed an angular beauty that struck him as vaguely familiar. Yet the moment that his eyes locked with hers, he knew this initial impression was false. The cold, argent eyes regarded him balefully, informing him that there was no quarter to be had there.

Sitting back on his boney haunches, he raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Please...I'm...not responsible for what happened."

In the distance, he could hear the first strident scream of approaching sirens and knew that he might yet be saved if he could stall this creature for a few moments longer.

"Did you raise your voice to intervene?" the thing demanded harshly. "Did you take any action to prevent the slaughter? Did you not condone the murder of my sisters by your very refusal to act?"

As the thing spoke, animation crept into its voice and its silver flesh began to glow, forcing Emon to shield his eyes. "You don't understand...Ingram is mad. He would not hesitate to kill anyone who tried to stop him."

She moved toward the pleading man unhurriedly, extending her lethal hands. Emon could feel the intense heat emanating from the creature's flesh.

"Where is Gregor Ingram?"

"He's run, though I have no idea where. The Federal authorities are after him. They'll make him pay for what he's done," Drury babbled, hunching away from the glowing hands.

"Their laws are meaningless," the thing that had once been Zavora Asari informed Drury. "The crime has been committed against the daughters of the goddess and the right of punishment is hers alone."

Drury could feel the heat radiating from her naked body as though he was kneeling before the open doors of a blast furnace. "Don't you see...there was nothing I could have done...nothing any of us could have done? Ingram is insane. Even the authorities mean nothing to him. That should be obvious by what he's attempting to do now."

When none of this seemed to register in her inscrutable silver eyes, he cried bitterly, "This is not fair, Goddamnit! I don't deserve to die this way."

The avenger stopped and offered Drury a grotesque parody of a grin. "Fair? That word being uttered through lips such as yours is laughable. Women of my kind have been acquainted with the male concept of fairness for centuries. Still, perhaps you are entitled to plead your case before my offended sisters."

Emon gaped at her blankly for several seconds and then a powerful, acrid stench assailed his nostrils. He correctly recognized the ghastly stench to be one of burnt flesh. He attempted to crawl away, but Asari darted forward and gripped his shoulders like a vice. He tensed, expecting to be incinerated upon contact, but found that her touch radiated neither heat nor cold.

Like shades materializing out of a predawn mist, they began to take shape in the cloying confines of his den. Some were burned to blackened husks, while others displayed the massive trauma of their wounding from the automatic weapons. The acrid stench of charnel pits hung over all of them making Emon gasp and gibber.

"Holy mother of God, please don't touch me!" Drury pleaded, but the livid eyes that regarded him held no capacity for quarter.

As they converged upon him, Emon's bladder failed him and he began to shriek.

4

As the two Atlanta P.D. cruisers pulled into the winding slate drive, harrowing shrieks ripped open the tranquility of the suburban night.

Sergeant Rachman Crauthers sprang out of the vehicle, ripping his assault rifle from its bracket on the vehicle's rear divider. Thinking that he been called to the scene of another brutal robbery, Rachman glanced at his young partner and growled, "Here we go again...another night and the same old shit!"

He had taken but three steps before he realized that tonight was anything but a typical night and would be one that he would never forget.

Without cause or warning, the double doors of the main entrance burst open, smashing against the brick wall and sending shards of glass tumbling across the stone walkway. Rachman immediately dropped to his right knee and raised the rifle into firing position. Then he ordered the lead officer in the other cruiser to request full backup. In a span of seconds that sense of monotonous incidental violence had slipped away from Rachman as the forecourt was plunged into an expectant silence.

Then something occurred that left the senior officer wondering if his sanity had suddenly deserted him.

Through the open doors of the mansion there came floating an elderly man like a feather on a gentle current of wind. There seemed no rational explanation of how he could be floating as he was and yet, miraculously, the man drifted six inches above the glass-littered stone. The man's neck lolled bonelessly on its stalk and his arms were splayed out to the sides like Jesus on the cross.

Forgetting his years of training and experience, Rachman lowered his rifle and stood to watch the man's languid approach...certain that the floating apparition was dead. Then the man's eyes found Rachman's...filled with a silent entreaty that made him want to throw aside his weapon and run like a frightened child.

The tortured man abruptly ceased drifting and rose to hover eight feet above the walkway. Rachman could feel a spring of cold sweat forming in the hollow of his lower back and begin to run into the crack of his ass. He was aware that the other officers were watching him and awaiting some guidance, but for the first time in his career, he was unsure of how to proceed beyond his state of frozen incredulity.

In the next instant, the conductor of this symphony of madness decided the issue for him. In booming tones of the apocalypse, the house began to speak, though to Rachman's ear its pronouncement was incoherent gibberish. "JUDGMENT HAS BEEN PASSED UPON THIS SINNER...THE GODDESS TIPS THE SCALES IN FAVOR OF RETRIBUTION."

Whatever the meaning, the declaration elicited a nerve-rending cry of negation from the floating man. The wind, which had been but a stir, rose to a strident howl. Rachman noticed the first lick of argent flames and it was this that broke his paralysis and propelled him toward the floating man. Before he could come to within ten feet of Drury the floating man burst into a blinding ball of argent flame that illuminated the suburban night like a low-sailing moon. From inside the ball of silver fire, the unbearable cries of agony seemed to go on for an eternity.

Chapter Twenty Three

1

The room had been plunged into a tense, brooding silence and none of its occupants seemed capable of even the most rudimentary expression other than profound shock. Finally, it was Contayza who found her voice, "Holy Mother, can such a thing be possible?"

Elizabeth turned to face her daughter-in-law, her face ashen and her body trembling slightly. Off to the side, Cynara watched Elizabeth closely with her eyes narrowed into speculative slits.

Only Cassie Jasic, who sat in a chair near the window, regarding the trio guardedly, had no idea what had aroused the group's agitation.

Earlier in the morning, Cynara had gone in search of the things that would allow Elizabeth to continue her journey north. She had returned with sets of colored contacts, bottles of dye and tools to cut and style hair.

As Cynara had deftly cut Cassandra's long flowing hair, the girl had struggled mightily not to cry, but as her copper curls fell lock by lock, she could not hold back the flood of tears.

Watching the girl's discomfort, Elizabeth felt as though she was a party to rape. The girl's silent weeping touched Simpson as a poignant and painful indicator of the effect her personal turmoil was having on the already emotionally-crippled girl. Inevitably, her own tears began to fall. Watching, Contayza was forced to acknowledge the truth of Elizabeth's essential humanity and understood that her scurrilous accusations were utterly baseless. Tentatively, she drifted over to the blond and took her hand. Elizabeth regarded her daughter-in-law with a surprised smile.

When Cynara finished her work, Cassie was a striking, blue-eyed blond. The girl wiped traces of tears from her eyes and uttered a self-conscious laugh. "It's really not so bad, is it?"

She glanced to Karnalla Mansley for affirmation and the taller woman drew the girl into a tight hug and whispered, "You look absolutely fabulous, honey."

The girl flashed a smile of pure gratitude mixed with unfettered admiration and then drifted over to a seat near the window. Cynara watched her go, recalling the promise she had made earlier that morning.

Then Elizabeth Simpson had replaced Cassie in the chair and Cynara had set about disguising the blond. It was the end result of her effort that had plunged the group into this paralysis of amazement. After Contayza broke the silence, it was Cynara who next spoke. "The resemblance is uncanny."

"Unholy would be a more appropriate description," Contayza remarked curtly. Elizabeth regarded her daughter-in-law coolly, but the genuine bewilderment in the Gypsy's eyes quickly defused her anger. Simpson could certainly empathize with Contayza's perplexity as she shared the same fearful confusion.

Shifting her gaze back to the mirror, Simpson struggled to suppress the moan welling up in her chest like hot bile. With her raven hair and her dark brown contacts in place, Elizabeth Simpson easily could have passed for Cynara Saravic resurrected from the rugged soil of Chevru. "How is this possible?"

Cynara raised a long index finger to her lips, her expression unreadable, but when she spoke, her tone conveyed intense excitement and dawning comprehension. "It's not only possible...it's perfectly logical...in hindsight."

Now Liz gaped at Cynara, her alien yet familiar gaze rife with confusion. "Logical in what sense?"

"This defines my initial attraction to you in perfectly comprehensible terms. You see, when I found you in Semelar, I was seeking my spiritual antithesis...someone who was the diametric opposite of everything I was...darkness reflected in light. As you can clearly see...you fit the bill perfectly. You have to realize that I sought you out for over eighty years and only now do I see that our converging was fraught with a profound shade of predestination."

Cassie absorbed this conversation thoughtfully from her seat near the window and a quizzical expression stole over her lovely face. When she addressed Cynara, her tone was flat and somber. "You're not really Karnalla Mansley, are you?"

Cynara and Elizabeth exchanged glances and Simpson conveyed her deference with a subtle nod. Subconsciously, Elizabeth had already commenced the process of relinquishing responsibility of the girl to Cynara, perhaps sensing that her search for David could well end in her destruction.

Cynara crossed the room and stood before Cassandra, regarding the girl with a degree of affection that genuinely surprised the immortal. "Yes...and no, Cassie and if that answer seems evasive, I'm afraid that it's the best I can provide at the moment. When this is over, Elizabeth and I will explain everything."

The girl lowered her head and nodded meekly. Cynara glanced at Elizabeth quickly, her expression one of open bemusement. The she returned her attention to the girl. "I'm sorry I had to cut your hair, but I hope you realize it was necessary."

The girl nodded dutifully. "It'll grow back...and I can't be caught. I'd go back to them and I'd rather be dead than have that happen."

Cynara said nothing, instead drawing the girl into an embrace. Elizabeth watched the pair, relieved that Cynara seemed capable of genuine tenderness and empathy. If Cynara could establish a rapport with Cassie there would be at least one bright prospect in an otherwise dismal future.

Behind her, she could sense Contayza's brooding and sullen presence. She turned to face her daughter-in-law. "Did you manage to reach Nathaniel?"

Contayza shook her head. "I tried several times...nothing."

"He's coming to find you," Elizabeth insisted vehemently, not willing to consider the other ominous possibility that kept trying to impose itself on her conscious thoughts like a dark pariah. Contayza shifted her gaze to Elizabeth and the immortal could see that the Gypsy's lovely dark eyes were alight with immutable pain and guilt.

"Perhaps he isn't," Contayza growled, lashing herself with her own guilt like a penitent from the dark ages. "Perhaps he's laying in our home in Boston...slaughter like a farm animal because you were stricken with nostalgia."

She glowered at Elizabeth, her expression baleful. Elizabeth gazed back coolly, but refused to take the bait. After a moment, Contayza's contentious expression dissolved. "I'm sorry...if something's happened to Nath, I'm entirely to blame. Back in Chevru, I vowed that I would protect him because despite all that he's experienced, Nathaniel is still innocent and vulnerable...fragile. I've abandoned him."

Elizabeth gently took hold of Contayza's forearm. "The fault is not yours...you were beguiled."

Contayza shook her head fiercely, refusing to surrender her grip upon her own culpability. "I recall the occasion when we discussed how Cynara seduced you. You said that each of us is largely responsible for our own corruption...because each of us willingly accepts temptation...invites it somehow. Convincing me that you had evil designs on my child was a simple matter because it was something that I would readily choose to believe. The demon had only implant the suggestion and I willingly embraced it. Don't try to trivialize my part in the disaster I've caused because I refuse to absolve myself."

"Contayza, Nathaniel is fine. You and I will go to Seattle and once I've found David, we will all fly back to Boston," Elizabeth reiterated emphatically. "That is assuming that he doesn't find us first."

"It's time that we leave," Cynara prompted. "I want to reach Seattle by tomorrow and it's already well past noon."

Elizabeth nodded and the four made their final preparation to depart. Saravic took the dye bottle and plastic containers into the bathroom while the other three women gathered up their meager belongings. Closing the door, Cynara switched on the ventilator and kneeling on the cool ceramic tiles, held her hands over the tub.

Holding the bottles and containers in her hands, Cynara focused her concentration squarely upon the objects. Scant seconds later, the edges of the containers burst into flame, quickly turning black and peeling into flakes of ash that drifted down into the tub. Not long after, the bottles began to melt, vanishing in an acrid cloud of chemicals. Then Cynara brushed the residue from her hands and turned the cold water faucet to the maximum, washing the traces of her act of pyrokinesis down the drain. She did not know if the authorities would conduct an intense search for Elizabeth and the girl, but she was determined to cover their tracks as thoroughly as possible. A confrontation with the police would be disastrous.

When she emerged from the bathroom, the three women were waiting for her near the door. They were watching Cynara with a sense of expectation that privately pleased the dark lady. As they crossed the parking lot, Elizabeth trailed behind the immortal. When she spoke, her tone was distant and fey. "I feel like I'm about to embark on the final leg of a dark, epic journey...I suppose the analogy is fitting enough since it took twenty-five years to come to this moment."

Cynara regarded her friend fondly, reflecting on all of the roles the pair had shared over that time...slave and master, lovers and enemies and finally, amazingly, friends. Affectionately, Saravic intoned, "Whatever the outcome of this saga is destined to be, it will be written in the next seventy-two hours."

Elizabeth nodded tightly and settled into the passenger seat. As the other two women piled into the back and settled in, Cynara put the Jag into gear and neatly accelerated out of the parking lot.

In their haste to depart, none of the four noticed the man who stood near the office door regarding the four intently. He steadied the four beautiful women carefully, momentarily confused that a blue-eyed blond was not amongst their ranks. That confusion quickly dissipated. The puissance radiating from the woman in the passenger seat was the unmistakable signature of a demon. His supposition had been correct. The four were sailing blithely into his carefully laid trap.

The man, who less than twenty-four hours prior had provided a psychotic gang of Columbian youths with enough explosives to level half the city, set about the final preparations for springing that trap.

2

Jurgen Gerchnau moved through LAX like a sudden and anomalous frost. Those who encountered the German would shiver unconsciously and scurry from his path, left with an unaccountable feeling that they had narrowly averted disaster. Jurgen seemed oblivious to this particular affect. Despite the conservative three piece linen suit, there was a crude, primal edge to the German's appearance that could not be concealed by the most civilized of attire. Even when Gerchnau's manner was cordial, he seemed to fill people with an abstract sense of dread.

There was a single tense moment when the airport scanner had brayed an alarm in reaction to the small leather case Gerchnau carried. Airport security had immediately clustered around the East German in a tight, expectant knot. Gerchnau had offered the group a disarming smile and flipped the latches on the case which he had purchased to house Elizabeth Simpson's ceremonial dagger. The security agents exchanged puzzled glances and then one had demanded, "Just what is this thing?"

"Precisely what it appears to be," Jurgen replied with a lavish grin. "You see, I'm a collector of religious and pagan cult artifacts and I've just obtained this rather exquisite piece...it's to be the jewel of my collection."

The guard responded with a cursory grunt and turned to his superior, who responded with a tacit nod. Closing the case, the agent closed the case and slid it back to the German. "Just make sure it stays in the case while on airport property."

"I have no intention of letting it out of my sight," Jurgen remarked and tucked the case under his arm before marching briskly toward the car rental booths.

The woman at the Avis booth was a petite, pretty blond with a twinkling smile and the kind of proud breasts that could make Jurgen forget about his obligation to his new employer...almost.

Gazing up at the giant who peered at her from across the narrow expanse of Formica counter, Virginia required every bit of discipline to maintain her customer courtesy smile. The man was impeccably dressed and attractive in a crude fashion, his chiseled features and icy smile conjured images of broken glass and rusty razor wire.

"God afternoon," Jurgen began simply in a voice that was surprisingly soft. "I'd like to rent a mid-sized sedan."

"We have a wide selection of models to choose from," she replied and tried to offer her most professional grin, but was dismayed to discover that her facial muscles simply would not co-operate. Faltering, she managed, "What is you eventual destination, sir?"

Something in the attendant's tone caused the German's gaze to sharpen. Something was about to happen. The girl was aware of this as well...though only in an abstract way. Abruptly, Virginia took an involuntary step away from the counter. Despite the afternoon heat, the terminal was suddenly several degrees too cool. Virginia could feel the flesh at the base of her spine rising into great hackles and the muscles in her legs grew wooden and unresponsive.

Eyes narrowing even further, Jurgen inquired, "Are you feeling unwell, Ms?"

Virginia attempted to respond, but found that the bore of her throat had shrunk to the size of a pinhole. All that escaped her lips was a wheezing exhalation of air. In that instant of inexplicable terror, Virginia knew that she was going to be sick. Reeling sideways, she began to turn away, hoping to escape before the entire contents of her stomach exploded over the counter top. Yet, as she turned to leave, the man with the piercing eyes and the soft voice leaned across the counter and gripped her wrist. Virginia's gaze whipped back to the foreigner...her eyes wide with dread and forehead slick with perspiration.

Jurgen could discern a palpable thickening of the air around them and correctly surmised that his sponsors were about to open another macabre line of communication. He needed only a quick glance at the girl to know that she too was cognizant of the rapid approach of darkness. She attempted to speak...possibly to scream...but no sound escaped her lips which were twisted into a grimace of agony. In the next moment, her blue eyes rolled back in her head until only the whites were exposed. He back arched in reaction to whatever process she was being forced to suffer until her unseeing eyes appeared to be staring at the terminal's vaulted ceiling.

Gerchnau's powerful hands shot out and clutched her forearms so as to prevent her from collapsing to the tiled floor. Holding her upright, he shifted his worried gazed to the open expanse of the waiting area. ' _Surely someone has to be seeing this_ ,' he thought anxiously. To his amazement and relief, no one seemed to have noticed the odd bit of drama that was playing out at the Avis rental booth.

Gerchnau drew an unsteady breath and turned his attention back to Virginia Mercer. Her eyes were on him again, but now they shone with a malefic intelligence, fraught with sardonic cruelty. "No time, my friend," the entity informed Jurgen, its voice a reverberating bass. "The trap is on the verge of being sprung."

"So you've located the woman?"

"We've located the traitorous demon bitch," the entity corrected curtly. "You can scarcely afford the luxury of a scenic cruise. Events are approaching a critical juncture and you must be in place to strike when the moment presents itself."

Gerchnau offered the entity a somber nod. "Do you know exactly where she is?"

Virginia shook her head slowly, the creaking of tendons an audible sound in the eerie silence that had descended around the pair. "For some reason, we cannot pinpoint her specific location, but we know where she's been. More significantly, we know where she will soon be."

For some reason, this last statement evoked the image of the late Yuro Petru, the unfortunate Romanian bureaucrat who had tried so hard to possess his Gypsy whore. Hopefully, this new employer's machinations would not prove so misguided.

"How could you possibly know this?" Jurgen heard himself murmur, his voice a distant echo is if heard down the length of a long corridor.

"The source of our knowledge is not the issue," the thing snapped petulantly. "What matters is that you are prepared and positioned to fulfill your obligation."

Gerchnau offered the thing a humorless grin. "I promise to bring you her head as a memento of the occasion."

The entity nodded without comment and then Virginia reached into the till and withdrew a fist full of bills which she slid unobtrusively across the counter to Gerchnau, who quickly shoveled them into the pocket of his suit coat.

"The next time we meet, I trust you will be prepared to honor your part of our agreement," Jurgen growled to which the entity merely shrugged and nodded. In the next instant, the presence was gone leaving Virginia gaping in obvious bewilderment. Jurgen bent down and retrieved the case containing the instrument of his apotheosis. Smiling at the bemused sales representative, he offered, "It suddenly occurs to me that my business is pressing and I cannot afford the luxury of a scenic drive. I think a plane ticket might be in order."

"Well...sure, that's fine," Virginia stammered, feeling inexplicably cold and ill. The foreigner smiled again and pivoting smartly on his heels marched across the terminal in search of the airline ticket counters. As she watched his retreating back, it occurred to her that she had never been so happy or relieved to be out of someone's presence in her entire life.

3

There were moments of lucidity, now few and far between, When Gregor Ingram was touched by the inking that his tenuous grip on sanity was slipping...that he stood to lose not only his mind, but his soul as well. In these rare moments, he would be stricken by grief and horror so consuming that he feared it might simply vibrate him out of existence in its intensity. Then the fog of madness would rise to envelope him, assuaging his terror with its narcoleptic effect.

He was caught in the tetanus grip of one of these fleeting moments now as he sat behind the master console in his mobile transmission trailer that currently resided in El Zaltaro's town square. During such moments, he discerned something strange and malign in the atmosphere of this antiquated village where technological progress had been unable to gain a foothold. He further wondered what exactly had compelled him to come to this isolated place, with its inscrutable, uncommunicative peasants who seemed not at all surprised by his sudden appearance.

He glanced down at his hands as they rested on the console. The long white fingers danced and shook like obscene white spiders. The tremors were a constant affliction now, though he could not recall when they had first started. More disturbing still was the fact that Gregor seemed unable to identify any of the faces around him. He wondered distantly what had become of his long time inner circle members such as Larry Walker and Emon Drury.

Other images assailed him but these were quickly obscured by the numbing fog. Something ineffably horrible had happened though the specific of this horrible event were lost in the shadowy recesses of his subconscious. Gregor, himself, had participated in acts of savagery too vile to describe...or so his nightmares seemed to suggest. He could feel the eyes of his accusers upon him...could feel their hot and wrathful breath upon his neck.

"There are times when his divine work requires a hardened heart and an unwavering hand," a voice informed him from a shadowy corner of the trailer. Startled, Ingram stood quickly, measuring the distance to the door and the hot, arid Mexican night beyond.

An intercom switch on the master console tripped of its own accord and a voice began to speak to him from the small engineer's booth at the opposite end of the trailer. Even beneath the meager exit light, Gregor could see that the booth was empty. "There are times when the Lord's work must be done not with a robe and a bible, but with the sword and the mailed fist. Your past actions prove that you understand this all too well, Gregor. This is why you have been chosen to play your appointed role. You must never allow doubt to attenuate your resolve. War will not allow for vacillation."

"War?" Gregor echoed, his voice dull and remote in the confines of the trailer.

"War is precisely the state in which we find ourselves, Gregor. You have been cast in the role of God's general and in this role, you must not falter. The miscreants must suffer the punishment that their transgressions deserve. Cruel as it may seem, rest assured that their punishment is just."

Gregor slumped back into his seat, entranced by the lulling timber of the invisible speaker's voice. It washed over him like a balm...placating his anxieties and enveloping the evangelist in the numbing for that routed the abstract nightmares from his mind.

As if from the depths of a hypnotic slumber, Gregor muttered thickly, "Yes, they burned...just as they deserved."

"No compunction, Gregor...no remorse," the unseen speaker reiterated, as though trying to convey the critical maxim to a dullard. "I can assure you that the enemies of the Lord will approach this conflict with precisely the same attitude."

Ingram tensed, knowing that something of consequence was about to be revealed. The presence paused as though for dramatic effect and then made its stunning disclosure...one that would propel the evangelist into the cold embrace of absolute madness...from which there could be no return. "Emon Drury could attest to that...if he was able. They slaughtered him, you know...burnt him to a cinder on the front lawn of his own home."

Gregor murmured something unintelligible and like flood gates being thrown open, the events of that grim night in Vermont came raging into focus. He shuddered violently and gripped the edge of the console to prevent from tumbling over.

"Drury was a spineless, insignificant little man, Gregor. He was hardly a prime target, but this was a brutally candid admonition. Don't be deceived or lulled into false comfort...it's you that they want...because it is you they fear!"

Ingram absorbed this thoughtfully, strangely pleased by the notion that he was in danger because of his importance in the grand scheme of things.

"What is it that you require of me?" Ingram asked, his voice tremulous with fervor.

"The enemy has raised a vile entity and unleashed it to the task of seeking your death. If you are to live, you must locate the golden witch...this dark messiah of their evil creed...and destroy her. Only by achieving this can you stem the dark tide and avert your own death in the process."

"Yessss!" Ingram's response was dreamy and oddly sibilant.

"This is where the evil enchantress may be found," Ingram leaned forward towards the console as the disembodied voice spoke to him in a conspiratorial whisper. As it mapped its strategies for one final apocalyptic offensive against paganism, a demented grin spread across Ingram's face.

4

Several hours before the official commencement of the operation to reoccupy Seattle's abandoned zone, its present rulers took the first steps in defending what they thought to be their rightful territory. While the powers who ruled the Columbian and Vietnamese gangs were amoral savages, they were not without their animal cunning. Both groups correctly deduced that Wayman Carcavice had been instrumental in bringing imminent ruin down upon them. Though both groups despised the other with unflagging passion that was terrifying in its intensity, both understood that their continuing prosperity (indeed, their continuing survival) was predicated on mutual cooperation. Their first symbolic act of this mutual cooperation would be to bring grief down upon the man whose interference now threatened their dirty empires.

The final day of anarchy had dawned beneath a gray and yellow sky that reminded Wayman of an infected wound...of putrescence and pervasive despair. Carcavice spent the day watching the streets like a sentry on the eve of an anticipated invasion. His nerves felt jangled as though his body was being fed a steady current of low voltage electricity. Under the circumstances, he thought that he should be feeling a sense of elation. After all, he was about to play witness to the culmination of a dream that he had harbored...at times without much hope...for the better part of a decade. Instead, he was assailed by a nagging sense of foreboding and a terrible certitude that a shadow of disaster had fallen over the zone.

To banish these dismal thoughts, he drifted amongst his charges, subtly suggesting that it would be best if they didn't stray too far from the shelter in the next day or so.

The derelict spent most of that final day submerged in a fog of fragmented memories. A confusing array of images bombarded his mind until his head began to ache from the sensory shock. Late in the afternoon, the malignant gray sky opened and a cold September rain began to fall accompanied by a chilly wind from the north-west. David...he now felt confident that this was his real name...could endure the blurred barrage of memories no longer and finally fled into the rain-drenched streets where he wandered about until exhaustion began to dampen the raging fires in his head.

For reasons that he could still not comprehend, his subconscious kept proffering forth two images in juxtaposition...a raven-haired beauty with a cruel, sardonic grin and an angelic blond who stared back at him solemnly. As desperately as he wished to discover who these two beauties were and what roles they had played in his former life, David was frustrated by a mental barrier that stubbornly resisted his best effort to surmount it. He correctly deduced, however, that once he managed to solve the riddle of these two women, the details of his lost life would come rushing back to him in a deluge.

In his state of distraction, he scarcely noticed the black Oldsmobile that bored down upon him as he emerged from the alley just opposite the shelter. The car had been cruising along the rubbish strewn service lane without the benefit of lights. The guttural rumble of the Olds' eight cylinder engine alerted Stillman to its presence and relying on an instinct honed through surviving a quarter century on the streets, he automatically threw himself into a doorway on his right.

David collided with the rusty service door and slid dazedly to the concrete step just as someone from inside the car's interior fired a cursory shot in his direction. The bullet missed the stunned Stillman by a good foot, gouging the concrete wall and plastering his skin with grey dust.

From inside the speeding Olds, someone uttered a spate of triumphant laughter, thinking that the bullet had struck home, and then the car rounded the corner, coming to a screeching halt directly across from Wayman's hostel.

Stillman lay in the service doorway, staring blankly up at the brooding heavens. Cold rain poured down upon him as he lay on the hard concrete. Raising his right hand to his forehead, he quickly realized that his face had been badly abraded in his collision with the rusty steel door. The blood seemed impossibly warm in contrast to the cold rain and the stark image of another such night blossomed in his mind's eye, flickering and gone in an instant. In its stead, he discerned that something malevolent was about to descend on Wayman Carcavice. His worst fears were confirmed in the proceeding thirty seconds.

The Columbians had planned their assault with their usual degree of subtlety. Three cars, carrying a total of a dozen assault rifle-wielding soldiers, roared to a halt directly in front of the building. Spurred on by machismo and the smug certainty that Wayman and his band of misfits were utterly helpless, the dozen exited the vehicles, crossed to the center of the street and forming a rough skirmish line, opened fire on the decrepit building that had provided a haven for the zone's lost souls.

The fusillade of bullets tore into the building, shattering glass and gouging great chunks of brick from the façade. Dozens of heavy caliber rounds tore into the front door, ripping it from its hinges and reducing it to kindling. Inside, the building reverberated with the terrified cries of men who had lived with terror for most of their lives.

Wayman Carcavice had been sitting near the double doors that led into the kitchen area when the first of the shots tore into the building. A small part of his mind had anticipated this eventuality for the better part of a decade and so he was able to retain enough presence of mind to react even as the howl of bullets shattered the uneasy tranquility of the rainy September night.

As the big double window blew in, Wayman crawled along the glass strewn floor, oblivious to the stinging in his hands and knees. Near his favorite chair, he retrieved his shot gun while screaming for the terrified derelicts to get back into the kitchen area.

On the street, the thugs continued to spray death into the requiem for the lost. One of the Columbians produced a hand grenade and crossed over to the sidewalk with the intention of lobbing it through the front window. At once, his comrades ceased firing as the grenade wielder glanced back over his shoulder and offered a witticism about sending the homeless to a better life.

He had pulled the pin and twisted back to faced building when a single figure popped up like a gopher and unleashed a single thunderous shot. The Columbian's grin turned to an expression of incredulous horror the instant before he was thrown ten feet across the pavement, landing on his back. Blood and cerebral fluids ran from the gaping horror that had once been his face even as the grenade skidded across the street towards the skirmish line.

As Wayman ducked back down below the sill, the Columbian's phosphorus grenade exploded, setting the dead man and his three nearest comrades aflame. Chaos ensued as the eight remaining attackers fled back to their vehicles pursued by the harrowing cries of the three human torches. Carcavice again popped up and fired another volley of shots that vaporized three others. This left five unnerved, cowering Columbians wondering how this purported turkey shoot had gone so horribly wrong.

In the shadowy recesses of the alley, David witnessed the carnage in a state of horrified paralysis, stunned by the rapidity in which seven living beings had been erased from existence. From his position, he could clearly see the Columbians as they gestured wildly and cursed from the relative safety of their cars. Like Wayman Carcavice, David quickly realized that the gained advantage would be temporary at best. This blunt rebuff would not be enough to dissuade the Columbians who were always willing to sacrifice a few foot soldiers to achieve their objectives.

Both Stillman and Carcavice both realized that the safe house was now under siege, but only Wayman knew that there was possible relief in sight if he could only hold out until morning. From his perspective, David watched as one of the Columbians crawled around to the trunk and popped it open, ducking back as Wayman unleashed a single shot that gouged a long strip of metal from the hood.

"My car! That cocksucker shot my car!" one of the Columbians cried indignantly. "I'm gonna fry your nigger ass!" he vowed and reached into the trunk, drawing out a grenade launcher. Stillman tensed, wishing that he was armed for the first time in his life. The Columbian raised the launcher over the hood and was preparing to fire, when one of the others jerked the weapon downward. There followed a harsh exchange in Spanish after which the disgruntled shooter crouched down to brood behind the damaged car.

Stillman fell back against the wall with a deep sigh of relief that quickly soured into an expression of consternation. Why had the Columbian been prevented from shooting? The answer was painfully obvious...there were others preparing to storm the shelter.

This thought had no sooner materialized in his mind than he was provided with concrete proof that his deduction was correct. A series of harrowing screams issued from inside the hostel followed by an intense volley of gunfire.

There followed an utter silence that caused Stillman's heart to sink. He ran his hands through his wet grey hair and slumped back against the building.

Back in the street, the Columbians rose tentatively to their feet, ready to cut and run at the first sign of metal. After several seconds, a figure stepped through the ruined doorway and stood motionless on the crumbling stoop.

"It's over," he declared sharply and David recognized the Vietnamese accent. Not wanting to, but powerless to resist the compulsion, David peered around the angle of the corner. What he saw nearly caused him to cry out.

The solitary figure came slowly down the steps and held something aloft so that the Columbians might be provided with a clearer view. Venturing closer, the five recognized the object and nodded their tacit approval.

The Vietnamese, a slight man of one hundred and twenty pounds, turned and walked back to the chair where Wayman Carcavice had spent many wistful hours dreaming of the restoration of his neighborhood. With a measure of ceremony, he placed the black man's disembodied head on the polished wooden surface, considering it the way one might contemplate an expensive vase. Then he turned and mounted the steps, vanishing into the silent interior of the shelter. Moments later, tongues of flame appeared in the windows. The Columbians watched the pyre in silence for several moments and then returned to their cars, driving away without bothering to collect the bodies of their fallen comrades.

Other than the sibilant crackle of flames and the gentle fall of the diminishing rain, the street was utterly silent. David rose and stumbled across the street, only distantly aware of the tears that were spilling down his dirty cheeks. These futile tears were quickly consumed by the falling rain.

Sobbing, he fell to his knees before the grotesque display and allowing his chin to settle to his chest, David closed his eyes and loosed a soul-shaking groan from somewhere deep in his chest. Suddenly, the wall that had held back the memories of his previous life for more than a quarter century burst like the dam that had drowned Semelar all those years before. Stillman cried out and was flung back into the gutter as though he'd been dealt a powerful physical blow.

As the tidal wave of recollections crashed down upon him, David struggled desperately to maintain his failing grip on sanity.

Semelar...Cynara Simonovic...a mercenary named Zved Neghev and most vivid of all, Elizabeth Simpson. David Stillman relived his first twenty-seven years of life in a span of seconds, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of detail that his subconscious attempted to disgorge into his conscious thoughts. Eyes wide with a horrified incredulity, David Stillman held out his hands to discover that they were the hands of a man on the verge of old age.

She had done this to him...Cynara Simonovic. She had exiled him to this place and submerged him in a mindless fog. How much time had passed? Years, obviously, and just where was this wretched place where barbarians could kill so savagely and display such utter contempt for life? For one terrible moment, he wondered if the demon had banished him to some hellish parallel world where death and destruction were the primary staples of existence.

Staggering to his feet, Stillman turned and stumbled back across the deserted street, away from the burning husk that had been his home for the past decade. The stench of burning flesh hung in the air like a cloying miasma. It burned David's lungs and he fled from it as if it might scour his soul. As he fled down the alleys that reminded him of a stone gullet of some enormous, malefic beast, David seized on the one memory with the power to allow to him with the strength and courage to endure.

Rounding a corner, he fell gasping against a rust-pitted service door. Raising his face to the soft rain, he screamed out her name like an incantation against all evil.

Elizabeth!

Chapter Twenty Four

1

It was just past two in the morning when the Jaguar Elegante flashed out of Portland, Oregon and into the State of Washington. While Cynara drove and Elizabeth sat in the passenger seat, the two mortals dozed in the rear seat. Cynara kept her eyes fixed on the roadway, expertly handling the Jag as though it was an extension of her own will.

She shifted her gaze briefly, glancing at the lovely profile of Elizabeth Simpson, who now wore the haunting image of what Cynara had once been. The former night queen experienced a sharp pang of regret over all she had lost over the past thirty years...including her own identity. To stave off the onset of melancholy, she attempted to draw Elizabeth into conversation.

"Nervous?" she inquired, though Simpson's rigid posture confirmed the extent of her anxiety.

Elizabeth turned to Cynara, regarding Saravic with those alien, but strangely familiar eyes. "Yes, but also incredibly anxious...I feel as though I'm on the verge of achieving a measure of redemption."

Saravic arched an eyebrow quizzically and echoed, "Redemption?"

"Yes, if David is alive and I am able to rescue him from...from whatever situation he now finds himself in, I will have reached a point of closure. Of all the harm I've caused, he is the one I've offended the most. You may have banished him, but he is there because of my obstinacy and stupidity. If I can make some measure of amends with him, then it's possible to come to terms with what I've done," she concluded somberly.

"Atonement is important to you, isn't it?" Cynara asked quietly, while smoothly negotiating a sharp curve.

"Yes, it's an integral part of what I must do if I'm to live as an immortal. An eternity of guilt is not something I relish.

"And how could I possibly make atonement?" Cynara murmured, a pained expression rippling across her lovely face.

Simpson regarded the other woman fondly. "You've already begun and though it may take centuries to satiate whatever guilt you may feel, we certainly have the time."

Both women smiled and Elizabeth turned in her seat, her smile turning to concern as she gazed over the sleeping faces of Cassie and Contayza.

"The four of us are linked by a common denominator of guilt," she declared flatly, earning a sharp, disapproving glance from Cynara. "They are not fortunate enough to come to terms with it and only Cassie is untouched by what she's done."

Saravic nodded solemnly and returned her attention to the rain-slicked road. "How is it you would like this to end, Elizabeth?"

Simpson considered this thoughtfully for several moments and then replied, "I would like to find David and ask his forgiveness for what I've done. Then I would like to spend what time remains to him trying to atone for the years he's lost on my account."

' _A martyr's penance_ ,' Cynara thought and felt her hands tighten on the wood-grained wheel. In that instant, she experienced a surge of black hatred for Stillman so profound that the fury of it set her blood to boiling. By an immense effort of will, she repressed this fury, knowing that it would force her to consider a road she no longer wished to travel. Gradually, her hands began to relax on the wheel and she heard herself say, "There is another option...one that would grant permanence to your wish."

After a moment, she blurted, "You could make your David Stillman an immortal. Then, the time he lost would seem like the blink of an eye."

Simpson blanched and vowed assiduously, "Absolutely not...there is a subtle and intrinsic danger in the process."

Even as she uttered this truculent oath, Simpson could sense that the notion had been seeded in her mind. Confronted with Stillman and his mortality, she judged that it would not take much for that seed to germinate.

"Never!" she reiterated fiercely, more for her own benefit than Cynara's. Suddenly tense, she switched on the radio if only to distract this line of thought. The somber voice of a local Portland radio announcer filled the Jag's interior. His report did nothing to alleviate Elizabeth's mounting anxiety, though it did focus it in another direction.

"Amidst a growing climate of social unrest and uncertainty comes a bizarre and chilling call to arms today. Wanted televangelist, Gregor Ingram has just transmitted a bombastic war cry in which he condemns the U.S. government for what he labels its condoning of pagan and heretical practices that have dragged the country into a swamp of moral turpitude. Again, he has openly called for insurrection against any branch of government or civil authority that demonstrates the slightest anti-Christian leanings. This rhetoric is not particularly new for Ingram, a militant religious fanatic who is wanted by federal authorities in connection with the murder of nearly two hundred women at a Wiccan retreat in Vermont. Tonight, however, his inflammatory rambling took a strange new twist."

The announcer's voice gave way to a reedy, tremulous voice of a man tottering on the edge of hysteria. "There is no room for the miscreant in America! There is no room for the pagan in America! There is no room for false gods and prophets in America! Too long have we allowed their emissaries to spread their wicked message. No more! We must cast them out and should they refuse to go, we must compel them by whatever means necessary."

"The foul whore of Babylon has spread her wanton legs and has given birth to a champion of her salacious cause. She has granted her a human name and set her upon the earth as a beacon to the baser side of every woman's nature. The name of this evil-spawned bitch is Elizabeth Simpson."

In the Jag, both Elizabeth and Cynara Saravic exchanged horrified glances.

"I have been invested with the task of seeking out the demon and sending her back to the Harlot who spawned her. I ask all devout Christians to rise up and smite this evil...to join me in this final decisive battle."

The raving Ingram was abruptly cut off. The newscaster's calm, somehow cynical voice replaced the evangelist. "Elizabeth Simpson is the mystery woman wanted in connection with a murder in Colorado and yesterday's fiery explosion in Northern California. Later during his transmission, Ingram claimed that he would lead his army in one final apocalyptic battle against the Golden Witch in the city of Seattle."

"In other news..." Elizabeth reached forward and closed the radio with a rare display of petulance. In the muted glow of the dashboard, her face appeared pallid. "My God, this nightmare just keeps on getting worse."

"He'll have to deal with me, Elizabeth" Cynara growled, not taking her eyes from the road. "I still think he's meant to be a distraction, but you can scarcely afford to be distracted right about now."

"You're right about not having time," Simpson responded, gazing dejectedly out the passenger window as the town of Kelso came into view along highway 5. "I've sensed David's presence like a physical touch. It's intensifying as we travel north. My percipience tells me that he's in mortal danger."

"I've told you that I would gladly take care of Ingram...say the word and he will be one less distraction to concern yourself with," Cynara declared in a voice that was low and lethal, evoking images of the old Cynara.

Elizabeth glanced at the other woman sharply, speaking in a stern and tight whisper, "You'll never do me a service by killing for me, Cynara."

"Really? I don't think you're in any position to remain so righteous. This man wants to crucify you. He's already order the deaths of two hundred women and for that alone he deserves to die. There's no time for finesse and besides, I would be the one with blood on my hands."

"And what if Gregor Ingram is another victim much like Contayza...or you and I? Do we all then deserve to die?" Simpson demanded pointedly. "If we take it upon ourselves to start meting our justice...where will it end?"

Cynara shrugged her shoulders and sighed in dismay. "Suit yourself. I never claimed to be a victim, Elizabeth. True, I was seduced, but only because my nature allowed it...as did yours. As did the Gypsy's. As did that piece of shit, Ingram. Any other view point is just so much philosophical bullshit. Gregor Ingram is a dangerous lunatic who has to be stopped."

Elizabeth reached over and gently squeezed Cynara's shoulder in a gesture of placation. "Then stop him for me without killing him."

There was a gentle, teasing edge that caused Cynara's ice to melt. ' _Is there nothing I can deny this woman?_ ' she wondered with no small degree of exasperation.

The two women fell silent and the Jag rocketed through the dark night like a harbinger of doom.

2

The re-occupation of what had come to be known as Seattle's ' _abandoned zone_ ' began at 6:00 a.m. on September 21st. It began with police and the army core of engineers disassembling the symbolic barricades that stood as a demarcation point between the zone and the civilized city beyond.

Newly appointed Captain Stuart Macevey sat in his unmarked cruiser some six hundred feet from the central barricade, watching anxiously as bulldozers demolished the wall. Stu recalled the symbolic destruction of another wall in Berlin and wondered if the future beyond this point could seem as optimistic as it had then? Macevey, for all of his certainty that this was the morally correction course of action, had no way of predicting. He did know that his entire life was predicated upon the success or failure of what was about to transpire. Being a cop was his only source of personal identity. He was unmarried and had no living relatives and so his job consumed his entire life. If this operation turned out to be a debacle, his life would effectively fall to ruin.

Stu sighed...the prospect of risking everything was not particularly daunting. There were certain realities that he could expect beyond this day. His reward for success would be an appointment as precinct commander in the toughest beat in the city...if not the country...a challenge he viewed with total relish.

His two-way crackled to life. "The barricades have been cleared Captain and we're now awaiting the signal to proceed."

Macevey hesitated for a moment. With the barricades removed, he could peer directly into the abandoned zone along the badly deteriorated length of roadway. There were no functioning street lights in the zone and the darkened length of roadway looked about as inviting as the gaping mouth of hell. Thrusting his misgivings aside, he ordered, "Drop the hammer and let's get this show on the road."

From along the length of the street behind him, more than a hundred police cruisers slowly emerged from the side streets and pulled onto the main roadway leading into the zone. Each of these vehicles carried four heavily armed officers with orders to put down any resistance with whatever force was deemed necessary.

Macevey and the other planners had anticipated sporadic resistance as they moved to arrest the Columbian and Vietnamese gang lords. For the sake of sending a strong message to the elements that now controlled the zone, fifteen hundred National Guardsmen, supported by a cadre of light armor vehicles and helicopter gun ships, had been enlisted for the opening days of the re-occupation. The Guard would also be utilized in various civil defense functions that would include ambulance and firefighting services.

Macevey and his superiors fully expected that the abandoned zone would be under full marshal law come nightfall of the first night.

After the last of the cruisers had vanished into the zone, the first of the armored personnel carriers swung into view. As Captain Macevey watched the impressive procession file past, he could not help but feel optimistic that the retaking of the zone would be completed quickly and without a great deal of bloodshed.

3

As the city of Seattle moved to reclaim a lost portion of its soul, all throughout the United States an army of religious zealots were quietly converging upon the city in heed to Gregor Ingram's bombastic call to arms. Unlike the ostentatious display of power that was entering the abandoned zone, the rag-tag convoy was unrecognizable...except to itself. Occasionally, two such vehicles would pass and the drives would exchange barely perceptible nods of acknowledgement. Unlike the typical fervent gleam these zealots normally wore like a ritualistic mask, now every eye was focused in the middle distance and every face was inscrutable.

Only if given the opportunity to peer into one of these vehicles would one possibly glean something of their intended purpose. The legions of the hypnotized carried a bizarre assortment of equipment. Along with the obligatory bibles and religious artifacts, there could be found a host of weaponry, most of which had been declared illegal by federal authorities. These weapons ranged from fully automatic assault rifles to an assortment of grenades and even hand held missile launchers. Apparently, the Lord's warriors were not above putting modern technology to good use.

On they came, like an inexorable tide...rising from all four corners of the country...drawn together by the charismatic appeal of a man whom they regarded to be a new age prophet.

Despite the clean cut appearance, these warriors were no less deadly than those gangs that lay in wait for the lead element of the Seattle police department assault team. And despite the professed belief in the sanctity of human life, these people were fully prepared to kill and be killed in the name of the great and holy cleansing.

Anyone foolish enough to think that these were sweet, harmless Christians was quickly and painfully disabused of the notion.

A Washington state trooper named Roger Edders was perhaps the first to discover exactly how fanatically devoted these holy warriors were. It was just past four in the morning when Edders had signaled for an ancient Olds Cutlass to pull to the side of the road.

The driver of the Olds complied at once and the trooper pulled onto the gravel shoulder some three car lengths behind the other car. Edders had quickly ran the plate and discovered that the Nevada owner had no prior traffic violations or criminal record. Breathing a sigh of relief, he stepped out of the cruiser into the cool, overcast September night. Hwy 5 was as deserted as a country graveyard and the trooper's standard issue boots echoed loudly on the pavement as he approached the other vehicle. As was customary in such cases his hand rested lightly on the butt of his service revolver.

The vehicle was occupied by a man, woman and two children. Something about their posture filled the trooper with a vague sense of disquiet.

Not one of the four had inclined their heads in his direction. They all continued to stare fixedly ahead as though riveted by some intense drama that only they could see. The trooper's grip on his gun tightened marginally after the driver made no response after Edders tapped on the window.

Tapping on the window with a little more authority, Edders called, "Sir, I'm going to ask you to roll down your window and produce your driver's license and registration, please."

Though he had done this a thousand times, Edders suddenly realized that he was frightened. With this state of apprehension there must have come a preternatural awareness for as the man turned his head to face Edders, the trooper thought he could hear the tendons in the man's neck creaking...though surely this was a consequence of his unease.

The window came down with a quiet whisper and Edders was confronted with an unsettling moon face smiling up at him. He immediately discerned that the smile never touched the eyes, which were dull and unfocused.

' _Drugs_!' Edders thought. " _This guy's on heavy drugs_."

"Is there a problem, officer?" the man inquired in a dreamy, distant voice.

"Both tail lights are out, Sir," Edders responded, his voice tight with tension. "I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

Edders blinked as though the last sentence had popped out of his mouth of its own accord. ' _What exactly are you doing_?' he asked of himself, but even then he understood precisely what he was doing. There was an intrinsic ' _wrongness_ ' to this family that Edders' police instinct could not ignore.

The driver appeared hurt, though the emotion was clearly feigned. Edders was aware that the others were now regarding him with the same moon eyes. He could feel the flesh at the base of his neck start to crawl and perspiration start to drip just below the rim of his collar.

"Is there some specific concern? I mean, something other than simple tail lights?" the man inquired, his cordial tone underscored by something more cynical and vaguely threatening.

"If you'd just step out of the car, sir," Edders persisted, somehow managing to suppress the quaver in his voice.

The man, who was in his mid-thirties and well groomed, hung his head as though in deep contemplation. When he again looked up, his eyes were now lucid and frighteningly intense, "The Lord's will must be served and those who oppose it will find themselves among the damned."

The trooper blinked, momentarily confused by the apparent gibberish, though his instincts were now braying like klaxons.

"Sir, I'm going to ask you again to step out of the vehicle," Edders repeated firmly and know his hand closed completely around the grip of his revolver. In the next instant, a thunderous roar shredded the stillness of the September night.

Edders registered the sensation of impact followed by an incomprehensible numbness that began in his midriff and spread down through his legs. Then his knees accordioned and he collapsed to the pavement as the pain exploded from his abdomen in geysers of scarlet and argent. Glancing up through pain-clouded eyes, Edders stared into the smiling face of a child no older than eleven. The boy brandished a smoking handgun, his expression informing the dying trooper that he had no concept of what he had just done.

The driver slowly emerged from the car, his face now set and solemn. He carried an over and under shotgun, which he now leveled at the fallen Edders' face. Roger began to babble but his pleas fell on deaf ears. "The will of the Lord is forged steel along the sword's edge."

This said, the driver pulled the trigger and vaporized Edders' head. As the body lay twitching on the ground, the four moved quickly and methodically to dispose of the bloody remains and the cruiser.

4

The man who had exhorted this army to rise and confront the supposed messiah of the pagan goddess was preparing to leave El Zaltaro and lead his children into battle.

A black hawk helicopter touched down next to the broadcast trailer and Gregor Ingram quickly ducked down and ran across the sand to meet it. He knew that he risked arrest and prosecution for multiple counts of murder and more if he returned to the United States, but that risk hardly seemed of any consequence now.

Only victory in the coming battle truly mattered. Life beyond this apocalyptic confrontation was scarcely imaginable. One of his nondescript order members opened the copter door and helped Ingram inside. For a fraction of a second, Ingram thought he'd caught a glimpse of a dull red light pulsing in the depths of the other man's eyes (and just who are these people). He shook his head and both the dull red light and the persistent uncertainty were gone.

Gregor climbed stiffly into his seat and gazed out over the bleak expanse of empty desert. Thrusting aside his misgivings, he turned his thoughts to contemplation of the form this imminent cataclysm might assume.

Perhaps less than ten minutes later, a silver light began to coalesce next to the now deserted trailer. Eventually, the light became a concrete and recognizable form. The thing that had once been Zavora Asari inclined its head to the night sky and sniffed the breeze.

Her alien silver eyes narrowed and an expression of frustration flashed over the inhuman features. The quarry had escaped to the north...fleeing like a bird into the night sky. The avenger glanced around, its eyes settling on the trailer. Spreading its arms in a strangely elegant gesture of evocation, the creature walked through the metal hulk...passing through its thin walls like a shade.

An instant later, the El Zaltaro sky flared above a blindingly brilliant argent fire ball.

The avenger emerged from the flames, its solidity faded as it went until it began to drift on the wind...heading north in pursuit of its avowed enemy.

5

When the first contingent of cars entered the abandoned zone, streaming past the mounds of moldering garbage and the dilapidated hulk that served as shelters for the homeless, most of the officers had no real notion of what to expect.

They certainly had no way of anticipating the violent reception that was about to befall them like the wrath of a demon god.

Thanks to Joubert's inside information, the Columbian and Vietnamese had time to prepare an explosive trap for the authorities, who they regarded as invaders. When the first cruiser turned along the thoroughfare that would lead them to the harbor and the very heart of Vietnamese controlled territory, they were stunned and horrified by the grotesque ornaments that had been hung to mark their arrival.

Across the width of the street, a crude staging had been hastily erected over which a gibbet had been positioned. Thirty horribly burned bodies were suspended from this makeshift gallows...each charred to a blackened husk. The officer in the lead car was reaching for the radio transmitter with the intention of conveying the news of this gruesome discovery when the street came alive with heavy caliber weapons fire.

The first several cars exploded into orange balls of fire under the fusillade of bullets. Those who escaped the flames were quickly and efficiently slaughtered by expert sniper fire. Police quickly disembarked from their vehicles and made a gallant attempt to return fire, but the shrewd Vietnamese had effectively created a killing box that left authorities at a tremendous tactical disadvantage. The situation worsened quickly when the defenders loosed mortar and rocket fire on the squad cars.

As the radio conveyed panicked screams and incoherent chaos, Macevey could feel the blood drain from his face. In the worst of imagined scenarios, he had never foreseen anything as disastrous as this.

Keying the Mike, he cried, "Pull everything back...now....repeat, general fall back...immediately!"

Fortunately, the rear cars responded to the fallback orders quickly, but even as they did, more of the lead cruisers were incinerated. Fifty cars had been dispatched into the Vietnamese section of the abandoned zone, but only twenty-five were able to beat a safe withdrawal.

Ninety-one officers lay dead amongst the smoldering ruins of the line of Cruisers.

The fifty cars assigned to the task of arresting the Columbians gang leaders met with a similar fate and within two hours of the start of the operation, one hundred and seventy men and women of the Seattle Police Department lay dead on the dirty streets of the abandoned zone. By nine o'clock that first morning, the stunned and battered elements of the assault team had withdrawn to the very edge of the zone where they huddled like dazed refugees. National Guard elements had established a defensive perimeter around the police force as if they fully expected the gangs to go one the offensive.

Meanwhile, beleaguered organizers huddled in an attempt to rescue something of the disastrous situation.

A stunned and ashen-faced Macevey sat in dazed silence as a report was delivered on the casualties incurred in the initial assault. Finally, when the last of the grim statistics was delivered, he asked, "Gentlemen, what do we do now?"

An uncomfortable silence descended on the room as the staff stared glumly at their hands. Finally, National Guard colonel, Sirrus Jonas spoke, "I suggest we blow the miserable fuckers off the face of the planet!"

Macevey grimaced and inquired, "Just how do you propose we do that, Colonel?"

"Simple, first you start by turning the operation over to the people who should have run it in the first place...namely, the military."

Again, Macevey grimaced...directorship of the operation had been a point of contention all through the planning phase. "You know why this was designated as a police operation, Colonel."

Jonas, a guard veteran, grunted in disgust. "Fuck public reaction...I think it's a little late to start caring about public perception now. I can pretty well predict what public reaction will be when we start retrieving those bodies from the zone. That's assuming those savage fucks don't turn then into gruesome ornaments."

Macevey started to object, but another voice forestalled his protest. Macevey turned to see Franklin Lawland standing near the doorway. Something in the man's remote expression informed Macevey that he should expect to be the scapegoat should this situation become irretrievable. "Perhaps we should allow the Colonel to speak, Stu."

Macevey accepted the reproof with a nod, resigning himself to the fact that his career as a policeman had in all probability come to an end. Jonas shot the Captain a vindicated glare and rose to his feet. "I guess it's fair to say that we've stepped into the proverbial wasps nest. Now the questions is, how do we extricate ourselves without wasting any further lives? The solution is quite simple...the new Apache Fire Dragon."

The commander's aide glanced sharply at his commander, while the others in the room exchanged puzzled glances. The Colonel paused and forged ahead. "It's fairly obvious that we severely underestimated the firepower and organization we would be facing. Simple riot police tactics are ineffective against rockets and mortars, so we're going to have to treat this like a full-fledged combat situation. That's where the Apache comes in."

"The Apache Fire Dragon is the most lethal combat helicopter ever built and the Guard has twenty-two of them at its disposal." Jonas declared with an obvious hint of satisfaction.

Now everyone in the room was openly aghast as the implications of what the Colonel was proposing became readily apparent. Unfazed by this reaction, Jonas elaborated on his plan. "I'm proposing that the civil officers be withdrawn completely. Following that, the Apaches will go in and hammer the areas where the traps were sprung. In addition to these areas, I propose that we conduct air strikes against our original targets. Once we've softened these sections up, I'll send in ground elements of the guard to secure the area so that your teams can carry out their operations. I can pretty well assure you that there will not be a repeat of this morning's debacle."

"Jesus Christ man, you're proposing an aerial bombardment in the middle of the city...on civilian targets," Macevey interjected. "We'll be crucified."

"After this morning, we're likely to be crucified anyway," Jonas retorted with the hint of a grin.

"Save the finger pointing for later," Lawland intervened calmly. "It's going to take some time to gain approval for your proposal, Colonel."

Jonas shook his head adamantly, his fierce blue eyes gleaming with what might have been private delight. ' _The bastard is actually pleased with what's happened_ ,' Macevey realized with bitter incredulity. ' _He sees this as a perverse type of personal vindication_.' One quick glance into those frigid eyes confirmed Macevey's suspicion. Jonas offered the group a crooked grin. "I'm afraid there's no time to send this back to the pencil pushers. I require an immediate decision or my troops go back to their barracks. I will not knowingly lead my men into an ambush. What's more...if we're being perfectly candid...the public will not allow you the time. Once the media gets wind of how badly this operation has failed, every politician in the state is going to scurry for the safety of his rock. Not one of them will advocate an escalation of the violence and every one of us will be offered as sacrificial lambs for this debacle. Worst of all, the murderous bastards will get to keep the zone and I would rather level the whole fucking thing than see that happen."

Abruptly, he stood and collected his hat. "Well, gentlemen, what will it be? You take the tiger by the balls and I'll do the rest."

Franklin Lawland gazed unflinchingly at the Colonel for nearly a full minute and then he said simply, "Very well, bring in the helicopters."

Turning to Macevey, he ordered, "Tell our officers to hold their positions until the guard is ready to act."

Macevey nodded, feeling deflated and sick. He had little doubt that Jonas' ' _solution_ ' would leave an indelible blight on the area that he was so desperately attempting to rescue. After the room cleared, he slumped down in his chair and closed his eyes, wondering how events could have gone so horribly wrong so quickly.

After a moment, he became aware of a hovering presence and opened his eyes to find Franklin Lawland regarding him somberly. "Captain Macevey, no matter how things unfold from this point forth, there is going to be hell to pay for what happened this morning."

"Do you want my resignation?" Stu asked flatly. Lawland responded with a wan smile. "No, that would be the easy way out for the both of us. You and I began this together and that's how we'll end it."

Surprised that Lawland intended to support him any further, Macevey nodded. Lawland clapped him on the back in an uncharacteristically informal gesture. "There's a horde of reporters out there demanded to know just what the hell it is we think we're doing. You've just been promoted to the position of press liaison in addition to civilian coordinator."

Macevey groaned and Lawland left him alone to collect his thoughts. Alone to think, Macevey's conundrum resolved itself in the blink of an eye. In a flash of crystalline revelation, Stu Macevey gleaned the truth of what had befallen his operation. The gangs knew precisely how the police were going to come at them which meant that someone in the police department had supplied them with the details.

On the heels of that, one name leapt to mind...Joubert.

Chapter Twenty Five

1

The four women had stopped at a roadside diner some one hundred and fifty miles south of Seattle, when Elizabeth first learned of the unfolding disaster in the abandoned zone. She watched ashen-faced as CNN aired the incredible footage of helicopter gun ships pounding relentlessly on targets in the city's ghetto. The entire skyline seemed to be ablaze. To Liz, it appeared as if hell had erupted through the crust of the world and was spilling out in a fiery wave of death.

To Cynara, she remarked, "Now my nightmares make more sense. What in God's name is happening?"

The news commentary could shed little light on the chaos. Apparently the initial police attempt to bring the abandoned zone back under civil authority had failed, resulting in a heavy loss of life. Subsequently, the National Guard had moved in to restore order with full military force. A stupefied public watched as heavy American fire power was unleashed on home soil.

"Nothing can survive that," Elizabeth whispered, feeling hot tears welling up in her eyes. Beside her, Cynara squeezed her hand. "You don't know that for certain...we've come too far to surrender to pessimism now."

Simpson fixed the dark beauty with a wary smile and remarked shakily, "Perhaps we should go."

The three others nodded and prepared to leave, each becoming attuned to the exigency that now drove Elizabeth. As she crossed the rain-soaked parking lot, Elizabeth offered a silent entreaty, ' _Please David...another four hours...just hold on for another four hours_."

2

Nathaniel Simpson drove through the rain-soaked streets of Semelar, falling deeper under the grip of pain, exhaustion and mounting frustration. His entire body ached like a rotten tooth, while the burned flesh of his chest pulsed and radiated nauseating waves of pain that went from tolerable to horrendous as the painkillers gradually wore off.

Even this was tolerable in comparison to the unnerving sense of surrealism that had descended upon him as he had driven into the town of his birth. The day was overcast and dismally dark and for just the briefest instant, Nath thought that he was a boy again, being driven through the terror-stricken streets of Semelar by a young Jimmy Simms while the demon Cynara destroyed their world.

Again and again, he would spot things that were familiar and be assailed by another horrifyingly vivid memory of that awful night. Tiny snippets of terror seized his thoughts, though he would have sworn he'd forgotten these things in the cradle of childhood. Suddenly, he wondered if the residual evil that haunted this place was attempting to drag him from adulthood back into the fear-powered world of a two year old.

This thought did nothing to alleviate his anxiety. He had arrived earlier that morning and driven slowly through the town, attempting to muster his courage. A single phrase from the news account of the diner explosion endowed him with the fortitude not to turn around at the town limits and drive away – "No one could possibly have survived the explosion that rocked this isolated diner."

The adamant refusal to accept this absolute was the only thing that kept Nath from surrendering to pain and despair. Instead, he tore a page from the local phone directory and began to visit each of the eight hotels and motels in Semelar and environs.

Stopping at each of these, Nath had produced a large photograph of Contayza Prowzi, asking if she had been seen during the last few days. He had also mentioned that she may have been in the company of a blond woman (though he did not at all think this was likely), but he was careful not to mention his mother's name which had gained an ugly notoriety of late.

As each successive clerk shook his head politely, Nath could feel the invisible hand of despair tugging at his heart. Near noon, he sat in his rental sedan, gazing down at the pictures of his missing wife. The photo had been taken just months after he had brought her to the United States...when their world had been alive with light and promise. How radiantly beautiful she had appeared then. He wondered if he would ever be able to see her in that light again, even if he did find her alive.

Nath knew that Duff Riley had seen his wife the instant he had laid her picture on the counter. The man's reaction had been an equal measure of terror and revulsion and spoke eloquently of just how profoundly Contayza had impacted upon his life.

"You've seen this woman, then?" Nath stated and Duff nodded, apparently mesmerized by the photograph. "She was in here after the other woman...the blond woman...a lovely woman that one was."

"How long ago was that?"

"Three or four days ago...I can't be certain. In fact, I'm trying real hard to forget," the old man grunted...his expression churning with fear.

"Why forget?" Nath demanded, not certain he really wanted to know.

A perplexed expression slipped over the old man's face as he tried to recall just what had transpired that night. "I knew from the first moment I set eyes upon her that there was something wrong with her...she looked furious," Duff paused and gazed directly into Nath's eyes. "That's not exactly right either 'cause she didn't just look mad...she looked crazy...the killing kind of crazy."

"What did she say she wanted?"

"Like I said, she wanted the blond woman. Though she didn't say why, you didn't have to be a scholar to see that it was for something none too pleasant."

"This blond woman...do you remember if she was alone?"

Now the man's grimace became a smile. "No, there was a pretty red-haired girl...maybe seventeen. The girl was like an angel...very friendly. When the woman was away, the girl would come down and talk to me. That was kinda nice because this job can get a bit borin'...especially at night. That girl loved to talk and she was smart and witty too. She told me that she was traveling with her mother and they were going to see the world."

Nath frowned, increasingly perplexed by the relationship between his mother and the mysterious runaway. Duff spoke again, drawing Nath from his reverie. "I'm sorry."

"They're in trouble, aren't they? I saw their pictures on the television...implying that they may have done some terrible things...it isn't true, is it, mister?"

Nathaniel shook his head and replied soberly, "No, it isn't."

"If the other one finds 'em, it won't matter, because she'll kill them...if she hasn't already."

"Did they give you any idea where they might be heading from here?"

Now Duff regarded Nath suspiciously for the first time. "Are you a cop?"

Nath shook his head. "No, I'm just someone who has to find this woman or the one she's trying to find. If you can help me, it could well prevent something terrible from happening."

The man searched Nath's face in hope of divining his intentions. Finally, he admitted, "The girl said they were leaving Semelar and driving straight through to LA."

Nath absorbed this thoughtfully, puzzled by the pattern of Elizabeth's movement. If she was still searching for David, she was doing so in a haphazard manner...unless she had discovered something in the time she was here. Something suddenly occurred to him and he asked, "Did you tell this lady where the pair where going when they left here?"

To Nath's dismay, the old man's eyes began to glisten with tears. "I swear to God that I didn't want to...but she hurt me. I have no idea how 'cause she never laid a finger on me. Still, she hurt me until I thought my head would explode. She swore she would hurt me worse if I didn't tell her what she wanted to know and I believed her."

Nath reached across and placed a placating hand on the man's thin forearm. "It's okay, this woman can be very...persuasive when she wants to be. I didn't mean to upset you."

Nath turned and started to leave, but half way across the lobby, Duff called out, "Do you know this woman...the bitch that did this to me?"

Nath turned back to the old man with a bitter, twisted grin clamped down on his face. "Yes, she's my wife."

Then he turned and quickly ducked out into the grey light and the steady rain, leaving a bewildered Duff staring after him.

3

Nathaniel managed to make it back to the rental before the convulsive shudders that had been threatening to overwhelm him since he first began talking to the clerk finally struck.

He gripped the wheel and gritted his teeth against their terrible intensity. Allowing his forehead to settle against the steering wheel, he remained in this position until the shakes finally began to subside. As the rain fell out of the dreary, brooding sky, Nathaniel Simpson felt more alone than he had at any time in a life that had been characterized by long periods of isolation. Contayza had entered his life, surrounded by a brilliant corona of light and vibrancy. There had been an earthy vitality about the woman that had been intoxicating and infectious. Now, it was entirely possible that she was gone. Even if she survived physically, Nath guessed that her spirit would emerge indelibly bruised.

As the shudders abated, an exhausted lethargy settled over Simpson. Since the first time since he'd discovered that Contayza was gone, Nath wondered if he was condign to the task of finding his wife and reversing the disastrous flow of events that seemed to have been initiated by his mother's return.

Elizabeth was the cool, esoteric presence that flowed in and out of his life at random intervals, bringing horror with each return. Still, how he missed her and mourned the very real possibility that he might never see her again.

Fetching a weary, pain-wracked sigh, Nath dragged the heel of his palm across his eyes and cheeks and sat back. Gazing out over the deserted parking lots and into the backyards of the nondescript cracker box homes that surrounded the hotel, it occurred to Nath just how strongly he loathed Semelar. This was a soulless, emotionally destitute place, where one did not live, but merely survived. Perhaps Cynara's brief reign of terror had been the cause, but Nath was more inclined to attribute this to a fundamental flaw in the town's psyche...one that would attract monsters of Saravic's ilk.

"What do I do now?" Nath demanded of the rainy afternoon that mocked him with an indifferent silence.

From behind him, a voice replied, "You do not go to Los Angeles."

Simpson cried out in surprise and for one terrible minute, Nath felt certain that the vicious German had found him again and was preparing to make good on this threat to kill him should their paths ever cross. When he glanced to the rearview mirror, he was not confronted with the cruel countenance of Jurgen Gerchnau. The man who regarded him with placid, sage blue eyes struck Nath as eerily familiar. Then memory matched the face to a recollection and Nath swung around in his seat with a cry of pure joy. That exuberance quickly turned to consternation when he discovered that the back seat was empty.

"Nathaniel," the voice called softly and Simpson swiveled back to the rearview mirror where the man in the faded brown leather jacket had not altered his position, "A rather gaudy entrance, admittedly, but even I am not above indulging in a little showmanship on rare occasion."

"I'm in desperate need of your help," Nath admitted simply.

The angel grimaced, his clear blue eyes clouding with sorrow. "Help of the kind you are asking is not mine to give. Even my being here far exceeds my mandate, but perhaps there are moments when the bending of regulations is warranted. What I can do is provide you with a gentle push in the right direction. I can assure you that Los Angeles is definitely not the place you wish to go."

"I don't understand," Nath admitted with a grimace as an incisive pain lanced his injured chest. "You spoke of perilous times?"

The angel's serene face became troubled. "Your mother has inadvertently set a process in motion that has propelled this world to the very edge of the apocalypse. We are tottering on the brink of a war between heaven and hell with your mother serving as the catalyst."

Nathaniel glanced down at his hands to conceal his dismay. "My mother is a...a good woman...despite all that has happened to her."

"Irrefutably true, Nathaniel," the angel agreed readily. "In fact, she is a righteous woman. Most of what has come to be is not her doing. She is the victim of a web of evil machinations. You see, Nathaniel, the mortal world is governed by a series of divine covenants, such as the one that prevents me from aiding you in your hour of extreme need. The purpose of this life is, in part, to test the inviolability of the human spirit and the primary reason that we may not intercede when evil offers its insidious temptations. Yet, even the darkness is bound by certain covenants...such as they are. In the matter of your mother, the dark minions are set to defy those covenants. That violation would be intolerable and would be met with an immediate and cataclysmic response."

"Why are they willing to risk so much to destroy Elizabeth? Was Cynara so damned important to them that they would risk outright war?" Nath demanded angrily.

"In part, yes...Cynara was a prolific defiler of souls. I watched her weave her vile web for nearly a century. Until she fell victim to her own seduction...in the form of your mother."

"My mother!" Nath spat, sickened by the notion that the two had shared a perverse sort of love.

"Yes, Elizabeth was a unique creature who eventually came to beguile Cynara and led the demon to her apparent destruction."

"Apparent?" Nath echoed, a shiver of atavistic dread shooting along her spine. Now the angel's smooth brow furrowed and his countenance became grim. "Your mother has turned to Cynara in hopes of finding the man she believes she's betrayed."

Abruptly, the color drained from Nathaniel's face and his mouth twisted in a silent cry of negation. Then an obstinate gleam dawned in his blue eyes and he began to shake his head. "Never, Elizabeth despises Cynara. She killed her. I was there when she buried the demon's body." He came to a sputtering halt and then his mind conjured an awful possibility. "Unless you're suggesting that some kind of necromancy was involved?"

The angel arched an eyebrow. "Cynara is not dead...at least, not in the sense that a mortal understands the concept of death. When your mother killed Cynara...or more correctly, when Cynara allowed herself to be killed, only her physical body died. Perhaps even then, Elizabeth knew that she would seek David out in a quest for redemption, because she absorbed Cynara's spirit.

For a long moment, Nath was incapable of response, so staggered was he by the ramifications of what the angel had just divulged. When he had at last regained his composure, Simpson stammered, "So you're telling me that Cynara's spirit is inside Elizabeth?"

The angel nodded. "Yes. The concept is bewilderingly complex and probably unprecedented, but true nonetheless."

For his first time, Simpson realized just how little he knew about the woman who had given birth to him. He did know that she had deceived him about Saravic and he could only naturally wonder what else she had lied to him about. Perhaps Contayza's accusation was not just paranoia.

"Nathaniel, do not allow bitter resentment to lead you down the wrong pathway. Effectively, Cynara is dead...imprisoned within your mother's flesh. Her physical body has been destroyed and her soul has been entombed. As I've said before, your mother is a righteous woman who has no designs upon your unborn child except to see her live the happiest life this world will allow."

Nathaniel nodded glumly and muttered, "Still, I gather that Cynara somehow fits into this equation."

"Unfortunately, yes. Elizabeth came to Semelar with the intention of evoking Cynara's spirit and forcing her to reveal what had befallen Stillman twenty-five years ago. I attempted to dissuade her, but she is resolved in her passion and confident that she can control Cynara's spirit. I fear that she has underestimated Cynara's shrewdness. Your mother is desperate and vulnerable...states that Cynara can easily exploit."

"Are you saying that Cynara could take possession of Elizabeth?" Nath asked, mortified by the prospect.

"Outright possession is unlikely. Your mother is simply too intelligent and too powerful of an entity to be dispossessed. However, it is possible that Cynara could coerce your mother into an indiscretion in return for her revelation about the fate of David Stillman."

Nathaniel ran his hands through hair. "What can I do?"

"In the case of Elizabeth, nothing. Forces have been roused. They will converge and the outcome has yet to be written. I have come because it is imperative that you save your daughter and wife. If humanity survives beyond the next few days, your unborn child will have a monumental role to play in the world's future. I am not permitted to elaborate beyond this. Find your wife and take her to safety."

"I want to find her...hopefully before she finds Elizabeth."

"It is too late for that," the angel declared flatly. "Though, I suspect you already know as much."

Simpson confirmed this with a dismal nod. "Where do I begin to look?"

"The point of converging will be in the city of Seattle. There, you will find your mother. Remember, however, that your priority must be bringing your wife and daughter to safety."

Nath signaled his understanding with a wry smile. The angel returned this smile and remarked, "You are a man cut from the cloth of goodness...much the same as your mother."

Nath accepted this compliment with a deep sigh. When he again glanced to the rearview mirror, the angel was gone. As the day slowly wound down into night, Nath gazed out over the darkened streets of Semelar with a renewed sense of purpose. As he pulled out of the broken town, he could feel the lethargy roll from his spirit like a shed layer of skin. Though his entire life had been plunged into chaotic shadow, Nathaniel no longer felt helpless. Nor did he feel entirely alone.

As he passed out of Semelar the town of his birth, for the final time in his life, Nath had no way of knowing that events to the north were close to reaching their climax.

4

Elizabeth and three companions drove into the city of Seattle just after four O'clock in the afternoon. Simpson's first impression was that she had driven into another country. Just after noon, the governor had placed the greater Seattle area under marshal law. State and National Guardsmen could be seen patrolling the streets and directing the flow of traffic.

The rain had stopped, but the waves of depressingly ugly clouds hovered over the city like a dirty funeral shroud. Adding to the chaos came the cacophonous braying of sirens and the guttural rumble of explosions, all underscored by an incessant stream of heavy caliber gunfire.

Pasty-faced and terrified, Cassie croaked, "Can this really be happening?"

Contayza remained silent, gazing steadily into another world where warfare and the omnipresent shadow of the military had been a large part of daily life. As if to herself, she uttered, "There are parts of this world where this is an everyday part of life. This country has been fortunate, but perhaps that good fortune has been completely expended."

Cassie shuddered at the thought and fell into a nervous silence. Cynara drove the four to a hotel in reasonable proximity to the abandoned zone where the sounds of the battle were far more pronounced. After securing lodgings, the four women hurried to their room, where Elizabeth dropped her bag by the door and quickly snapped on the television.

The somber, harried face of a Seattle civil authority police captain named Stuart Macevey filled the screen. As Elizabeth watched and listened, her lovely eyes narrowed. This man was one of the central architects of the thrust into the abandoned zone. As she listened to him speak, she decided that he would be the one to help her find David...and if David should fall victim to this maelstrom, he might also be the one to atone for that death. Shaking her head and clearly perturbed by the final thought, Elizabeth focused on the television screen where Macevey was briefing a truculent press gathering.

"The National Guard has secured ninety percent of the abandoned zone. As Colonel Jonas has already stated, the aerial bombardment will likely conclude within the next ninety minutes. Civil authorities will then move in and take control of the situation. This will include emergency rescue and fire services, along with police detachments to begin the process of imposing civil authority."

"Would you characterize those resisting this effort as political prisoners?" someone demanded belligerently.

Stu shook his head vehemently. "These people are common criminals...nothing more. They will be treated accordingly."

Elizabeth abruptly switched off the set in disgust. Cynara watched her closely, sensing that Elizabeth's normally unflappable self-control was on the verge of being utterly shattered. She crossed the room and placed a placating hand on Elizabeth's shoulder. "You have to be calm and deliberate, Elizabeth. We're in an extremely hazardous situation and impulsiveness will only make it worse."

Elizabeth glowered, but then lapsed into a frustrated sigh. "You're right. Still, to be so close and then find myself confronted by this carnage. If David was to die in this, I really don't know if I could take it."

"Let's not become fixated on the what-ifs. Instead, let's focus upon finding your David Stillman."

Simpson glance up at Cynara as Cassie came to stand beside the two women. "I can't feel him anymore, Cynara!" Elizabeth intoned wretchedly. "As we came closer to the city, there seemed to be a link between us...a connection. Now it's gone."

The last sentence was blurted out in a shaking moan fraught with misery and despair. Cynara stroked the angle of Elizabeth's cheek with a long index finger. "That is not uncommon, Elizabeth. Trust me. Strong passion somehow occludes our percipience and our abilities to establish empathy with others. I...I know this because I experienced the same failure of perspective when I first attempted to find and seduce you all those years ago."

Elizabeth stared into Cynara's dark eyes, searching for any hint of deception, and seeing none, nodded gratefully, wanting desperately to cling to the slightest hint of optimism. "I pray that you're right."

"Trust me, I am." Cynara replied, her confident tone hinting at a surety that could only come with knowledge. "You realize that this commotion...police and military activity, is going to make getting into the abandoned zone a particular challenge. Access will be severely restricted and any presence is likely to be challenged."

Simpson nodded, her jaw set in lines of grim determination. Gathering her composure with a single deep breath, she divulged her plan for locating David. As she spoke, Cynara began to smile, delighted by the sheer temerity of what Simpson was proposing. When Elizabeth lapsed into an expectant silence, Cynara laughed and remarked, "What a devious creature you've turned out to be. The notion is so outrageous that it might actually work. How can I help?"

"Perhaps by dividing the zone into two halves...you take one and I'll search the other. If my plan actually works, we'll have an army helping us co-ordinate the search."

Cynara signified her willingness with a slight nod and Elizabeth clasped the taller woman's hands. "I want you to know that I have absolutely no regrets about what we did in Los Angeles. The must seem like a very self-serving proclamation to make at the moment...but it's still true."

Now it was Saravic's turn to smile in gratitude before averting her glistening eyes. Needing to escape and be alone with her turbulent and perplexing emotions, she mumbled, "I'm going to go down and find a late edition newspaper...maybe we can get a more detailed account of what's actually happening down there."

Elizabeth nodded and watched fondly as the other woman hastily left the room. She suddenly recalled the angel's grim admonition against re-animating Cynara and it occurred to her that even divine creatures were fallible. Since her resurrection, Cynara had proven her friendship and loyalty to be absolute and unflagging.

Elizabeth became cognizant of Contayza's intense scrutiny and turned to face her daughter-in-law. As though she had divined Simpson's thoughts, she observed, "You gamble an incredible amount on the trust of a woman who once devoted herself to the destruction of everything you profess to love."

Simpson regarded the diminutive Gypsy coldly. "I think that my faith is well-founded...Cynara is the diametric opposite of what she once was. We've all undergone changes, though not all have been for the better."

Contayza stiffened at the rebuke, her lips pulling down into a baleful frown. "I refuse to tolerate your derision...you have not right to judge me!"

With this, she started towards the door, but Elizabeth imposed herself in Contayza's path. Contayza glared, but Elizabeth gripped her shoulders gently. In a voice that was both conciliatory and pleading, she remarked, "Whatever our differences might be, don't let them blind your common sense. If you leave, you're vulnerable to my enemies. They used deception to try to turn you against me. It's not unthinkable that they might now resort to a more direct approach."

Contayza did not respond at once, but her contentious glare faltered. Chilled, she echoed, "A more direct approach?"

"If they cannot coerce or beguile you into destroying me, they might then resort to the threat of harming you to attack me." Even as she uttered this grim possibility, the sheer torment that such an eventuality would cause made her shudder. Vehemently, she insisted, "Stay with me. Here, there is a possibility that I can protect you. Please Contayza, don't allow you enmity to cloud your judgment."

Finally, Contayza acceded with a shrug of her shoulders. "I'm going to call Nathaniel again. If I can't reach him, then I'm going to call Boston Police and tell them that our house may have been broken into."

Elizabeth nodded her approval and fiercely thrust the image of her son's face from her thoughts. Distantly, she offered the Gypsy a solemn vow that she hoped would appease the Gypsy. "I think this is going to be over quickly. Contayza, it's likely that my enemies will destroy me. Even if, by some miracle, I manage to survive, I swear that you'll never be troubled by my presence again...unless you specifically want me to come."

A complex array of emotions rippled over Tayza's lovely face then before finally settling into a haggard mask of misery and worry. Unexpectedly, she began to cry, her unhappiness pouring forth in a flood of tears and incoherent plea for forgiveness. She stumbled blindly forward and Elizabeth embraced her willingly, relieved that a barrier of resentment had finally collapsed.

From across the room, Cassie watched the pair, feeling awkward and embarrassed at having intruded upon a personal moment in which she had no part. She experienced another emotion as well...one that she recognized to be fraught with a potential for extreme danger...jealousy.

5

In a hotel room not five miles from where Elizabeth Simpson and Contayza Prowzi were reaching their tentative rapprochement, Simpson's assassin was preparing himself for the climactic confrontation.

Jurgen Gerchnau had arrived in Seattle earlier that morning amidst a backdrop of open conflict that had transported him back to the days of his wild mercenary youth in Africa and South America. As he drove through the police and militia-controlled barricades toward the center of town, Jurgen could clearly smell the heady reek of cordite and clearly see the heavy acrid clouds of smoke that hung over the city like thunderheads. The cacophonous roar of air to ground missiles rocked the city, dispensing high-tech death like flames from the fingertips of a god.

In the chaotic environment, Jurgen was beset by an uncharacteristic melancholy and found himself contemplating the complex labyrinth that had become his life. He again found himself yearning for the mercenary life he had once lived. This life had been reduced to its most primitive components...fucking, drinking and killing...had filled him with intense contentment and a sense of purpose he had been unable to find elsewhere.

Along with this melancholy there came a shocking wave of self-doubt. For the second time in his life, Jurgen was aspiring to kill a creature he did not fully understand. With this doubt came the nagging fear that perhaps he had ventured out of his element. Always capable of rigid discipline, Jurgen forced his mind to focus on the vast wealth of power that he would gain once he succeeded in destroying Elizabeth Simpson. He succeeded after a moment, but realized that his uncertainty had not been banished...merely brought under control.

The Victoria Arms was one step away from a condemnation order, but its rundown condition suited Gerchnau perfectly. The room brought an entirely new meaning to the word Spartan with its single chest of drawers and rusting iron bed. Gerchnau threw his valise onto the bed and stripped off his topcoat.

Now that he had reached Seattle, it was time to turn his attention to the task of zeroing in on Elizabeth Simpson. In this regard, his long education with Sambata could prove invaluable. The Indian mystic had helped him to grasp the staggering concept of the collective consciousness.

As Sambata had explained, the collective consciousness was comparable to a vast field of light energy. Every living thing contributed a certain measure of light to the collective pool. The degree and magnitude of each individual's contribution depended on that creature's spiritual purity and power. With the proper degree of skill and focus, it was possible to merge with the collective pool. In essence, Gerchnau had been taught that he could delve into this pool and locate individual points of consciousness if the one he sought exuded an exceptional aura of power.

Jurgen had little doubt that Elizabeth Simpson's beacon would radiate with a brilliance that was virtually blinding to a man of his learning.

Stripping off his clothes, Jurgen sat on the bare wooden floor near the foot of the bed. Resting his hands on his knees with the palms facing upward, he closed his eyes and began the long process of cleansing his thoughts of all the daily detritus that made access to the upper plane of consciousness all but impossible. As his focus began to sharpen, Gerchnau realized that the search could be long and excruciating, but he was totally confident that the effort would be rewarded.

Chapter Twenty Six

1

When merciful night finally fell on the embattled abandoned zone, the defiant gangs had been essentially battered into submission. Though several fanatics still fought running gun battles with National Guardsmen near the harbor, most of the resistance had been brutally crushed. The primary activities on that first brutal night were fire control and emergency medical services.

City police served as escorts for the two operations, but the male and female officers all wore identical dazed expressions of defeat. Despite the eventual success of the mission, they had been bloodied and humbled. The stigma of death and the need to be rescued by the guard was never likely to be forgotten.

The operation evoked a firestorm of debate ranging from exuberant applause to bitter denunciation from civil rights groups, who seemed determine to champion the cause of any group...no matter how perverse that group might happen to be. State and City officials were hailing the operation as a success and vowing that it was the first salvo in a war to reclaim the country for Americans. National Guard Colonel Jonas was being lauded as a hero and Franklin Lawland as the chief architect of a great social and moral victory. Of recently appointed police captain, Stuart Macevey, there was no mention, for which he was genuinely grateful.

One small group of gang members who had managed to survive the first day of carnage unscathed was Arturo Richeras' Pyronators...the five remaining members were too frightened or too crazy to abandon their lunatic leader. When the chaos had descended upon the zone, Arturo and his gang had went to ground, passing the day in the abandoned tunnels that ran beneath an old electronics plant like a maze.

Arturo spent the day in the damp darkness in a fevered frenzy of fear and anticipation. While his brothers were blasted into the afterlife, Richeras prayed for a cessation of the aerial assault. He had no intention of squandering his life over a crumbling patch of concrete and asphalt. At any rate, if his plan reached fruition, there would soon be nothing left to fight over. The prospect of such a glorious fire set the Columbian youth to drooling and his black eyes gleamed like ebony fire in the darkness.

The Pyronators had displayed an amazing efficiency and determination in planting the explosives throughout the city. With a trembling left hand, Arturo reached out and stroked the detonator lovingly.

At the tip of his dirty fingers was the power to reduce the abandoned zone and everything in it to a pile of black dust.

2

Not far from where Arturo Richeras lay dreaming his vision of ubiquitous fire, David Stillman crouched in the basement of an abandoned tenement building. Outside, he could hear the cacophonous, perplexing thunder of heavy explosives. Occasionally he would hear the strains of strident voices or running feet. He tried to imagine what possibly could have provoked such calamity and found that he could not.

Stillman knew that he should venture out and attempt to discover the cause of the madness blooming around him, but despite the exigency of this need, Stillman found himself incapable of movement. His body felt stiff and unresponsive as thought his flesh was not his own. The thought was darkly amusing and he croaked a spate of mirthless laughter.

Indeed, the image was an appropriate one because Stillman felt like a man who had suddenly awoken from a terrible nightmare to find himself inhabiting a stranger's skin. He held his hands up before his face in the dull light. They shook slightly and he knew that they were the hands of a significantly older man than the one he remembered.

A stifled groan escaped his lips as he recalled the final grim moments before he had accepted the demon's fog. ' _Elizabeth_!' The vile bitch had corrupted his Elizabeth...infecting her with a pernicious poison that had effaced everything that Simpson had been.

He had been utterly helpless to prevent this tragic perversion.

The immensity of his failure crashed down upon him until he felt that he could scarcely breathe. Gasping, he slid down the damp wall and placed his head between his knees until the sensation passed.

Grimly, he turned his thoughts away from this horrible memory to the question that would have to be answered if he was to ever push past the tattered ruins of his life and survive beyond this moment.

Slowly, dispassionately, he began to formulate a list of questions...trying to approach his situation as methodically as the author he had once been had approached his work.

His first and most pressing concern was to determine just where he was and try to find out precisely what the hell was happening on the streets above him. On the basis of what he had witnessed last night, Stillman could not help be wonder if Cynara had consigned him to some futuristic world that resembled John Carpenter's Escape from New York. He found it nearly incomprehensible that an atrocity like the one that he had witnessed last night could possibly happen in America. Then again, he had been ' _away_ ' for an undetermined length of time and it was impossible to surmise what changes might have befallen the country in the interim.

Which led him directly to his next question...precisely how long had he been mired in Cynara's fog? Obviously, he could not determine the answer to any of these questions cowering in this basement. Despite whatever was happening in the streets above, Stillman had to find the resolve to venture out and seek answers.

There were two other questions that begged answering, but Stillman found himself reluctant to address these. The possible answers terrified him on an atavistic level that he could barely comprehend. The questions that had haunted him since awareness began to filter through the fog was...why now?

What had been the catalyst for his emergence from Cynara's spell? The answer could only be Elizabeth, but the question of timing was still obscured in shadow.

Stillman pushed himself to his feet and drew a deep breath. His future actions were as inevitable as the dawning and setting of the sun. When all of the questions had been answered, he would begin the quest of determining what had befallen Elizabeth Simpson.

Semelar was the logical place to start...assuming the small town still existed in whatever world he now found himself. From there he would take his search to the four corners of the earth to find answers...and extract vengeance.

3

A hand fell gently on her shoulder and Elizabeth came out of her reverie with a start. She tore her gaze away from the window through which she had been staring into the street for the better part of two hours, willing the darkness to descend. To occupy her time, she had been devising scenarios in which she would find David and trying to imagine his possible reaction to their meeting. All of them seemed impossible and ludicrous.

Elizabeth glanced up to see Cynara gazing down upon her, compassion radiating from those eyes like dark sunlight. "It's time to begin."

Elizabeth nodded, feeling both nervous and apprehensive. She rose and offered Saravic a wan smile while trying to summon some cause for optimism. "I suppose it's not necessary to tell you how frightened I am?"

Cynara merely inclined her head and squeezed Elizabeth's shoulders. She then turned to the two mortal women who watched her from their seats before the television. "We're going to go now and it's impossible to predict how long we'll be gone."

Elizabeth's gaze fell upon Contayza, whose brow was furrowed by a complex blend of emotions that she could not decipher. Just over an hour before, Contayza had received a phone call from Boston Police informing her that her house had ransacked and there was no sign of her husband. They also divulged that the kitchen floor had been spotted with blood. They went on to request that she return to Boston as quickly as possible. Now she sat stiffly in an armchair, consumed by guilt and misery.

"We should leave for Boston, tonight!" Contayza erupted suddenly, her dark eyes at once accusing and pleading. Elizabeth shook her head slowly, forcing herself to affect a coldness she did not feel. "I simply can't...events are moving to a climax here. I feel that and I suspect that you do as well. Whatever has happened in Boston is over and rushing blindly back will achieve nothing. If Nath is alive, he will be searching for you. If not..."

She left the final sentence unspoken, unable to articulate the worst of her fears. An expression of grudging acceptance swept over Contayza's face for which Elizabeth was genuinely grateful. To dwell on the subject of Nathaniel would shatter what was left of her fragile resolve. "I need both of you to listen to me carefully. It's imperative that you remain inside. Lock the doors and answer to no one. Cassie, if something should go wrong here, stay close to Contayza. She has the power to protect you from just about anything. If they should find you, it is impossible to predict what form they'll take, so trust no one and make no assumptions."

Cassandra nodded solemnly and Elizabeth turned her attention to Contayza, who nodded curtly and averted her eyes. Simpson extended her hand to Cassandra and drew her to one side of the room. Placing her hands on the girl's shoulders, she gazed into Cassie's limpid emerald eyes. "This is nearly over, Cassie. I promise. Just be patient for another day or so and I promise you'll never know the meaning of the word ordeal again."

The girl shook her head fiercely. "This has not been an ordeal, Elizabeth. This is the first time I actually felt part of anything in my entire life." She averted her eyes to the floor. "If I'm afraid of anything, it's that this is all going to end suddenly, leaving me back where I was before you found me."

Elizabeth drew the girl into her arms and gently kissed the top of her head. "That is one fear that you need never have. If by some chance, something should happen to me, Karnalla has agreed to take care of you."

Elizabeth dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "And you must promise to take care of her."

Cassie smiled, though Elizabeth detected a grim determination beneath the shallow smile. She hugged the girl again and pushed her to arms length. "While I'm gone, rinse the color from your hair...neither of us will ever have to hide who we are again."

This seemed to genuinely please the girl and she beamed a brilliant smile. Elizabeth smiled back, not knowing that this would be the final time she would ever see this particular expression adorn Cassie Jasic's lovely face.

She turned to Cynara and signified her readiness with a tight jerk of her head. Saravic turned and with a slight arching of her eyebrow, caused the patio door to slide open.

Cassie uttered a gasp of surprise, but Contayza remained silent, unimpressed by the minor act of telekinetic manipulation.

Both Elizabeth and Cynara agreed that moving through the city, especially the abandoned zone, would be a slow and cumbersome process with the heavy police and military presence. At any rate, the presence in the zone of two women was bound to attract unwanted attention, something that Simpson simply could not afford at this juncture. From CNN's comprehensive coverage of the reoccupation of the Seattle zone, the women had learned that it encompassed an area of over a hundred square blocks. A comprehensive search of the area on foot could take days...if not weeks.

The solution was obvious...the air. So as not to badly alarm the girl, Elizabeth explained, "Cassie, you are about to see something that you may find unsettling. Don't be alarmed. It is only another aspect of what I am and the power I possess."

Cassandra nodded nervously, trying to imagine what awesome wonder this astounding creature was going to reveal now. The two immortals exchanged glances and then assumed identical stances with their legs set shoulder width apart and their chins resting upon their chests.

Both Cassie and Contayza watched closely, transfixed by anticipation as the very air in the suite began to thrum expectantly. The process began slowly, but once set in motion, quickly accelerated. Cassie watched Elizabeth, whose solid flesh began to draw into itself...viscous at first and then growing steadily more liquid. Cassie dazzled mind conjured the image of a bizarre human candle. Indeed, this image was appropriate as the once solid flesh of Cynara and Elizabeth spread over the floor in a gelatinous pool.

Cassie emitted a horrified squeal and skittered back across the floor. The process continued until all that remained of both women were two circular pools of liquid the color and consistency of motor oil.

After a brief pause, the transmogrification continued, though now the pools began to flow back on themselves. At the center of each, the fluids began to solidify and a tangible shape rose from the viscous jelly.

Cassie uttered a cry of pure delight as an eagle and snow owl hopped anxiously where once Cynara and Elizabeth had stood. The owl's huge eyes found Cassie's and blinked slowly as though to convey some reassurance and encouragement...or so the girl chose to think. Then the two birds flapped their wings and wheeled about in a tight arc, sailing gracefully through the open doors and out into the blustery night beyond.

Both mortal women rushed to the window and tracked the path of the two birds as they flew westward towards the zone.

"God, how amazing it must be to be able to do that!" Cassie exclaimed, envious of such unimaginable freedom.

Contayza turned away from the railing and drifted back into the room. She found herself overcome by such a wave of black loathing that her body literally shook with fury. Here, her husband and Elizabeth's only son, whom she professed to love, was missing or possibly even dead and the self-absorbed bitch was cavorting a continent away in search of her phantom lover.

Elizabeth's pragmatic and dispassionate assessment of Nath's situation, as correct as it may have been, did little to diminish Contayza's outrage. Perhaps Elizabeth was not a scheming, manipulative demon, but her true loyalties were anything but virtuous.

Suddenly, balefully, Contayza wished that Simpson's enemies would find her and do what she, herself, had failed to accomplish. Though Nath would be devastated by his mother's destruction (presuming he was still alive) Elizabeth specter would be lifted from there lives once and for all.

4

Elizabeth swept high into the night sky and wheeled towards the west. In mere minutes, the abandoned zone loomed ahead of her, rising up in the darkness like a cancerous growth. The owl tipped its wings and descended until it was gliding mere feet above the roof tops.

Even in her altered state of awareness, Simpson was struck by the repulsive ugliness of the blighted landscape. Here and there, tongues of flame still licked at the lumbering clouds as crews of firemen attempted to bring the blaze under control. Their efforts were desultory at best. Most of the buildings had suffered direct hits from the Apache missiles and there was little left to salvage and all present knew that the buildings were only fit for leveling. Occasionally, they would pull survivors from the wreckage, but more often, rescue workers would be faced with the grim task of cataloguing bodies.

Through alien eyes, Elizabeth watched them go about their work, trying not to succumb to the dismay which the carnage evoked. Instead, she glided through the drifting tendrils of smoke and the listless fire, searching not for David Stillman, but for a man whom she intended to enlist in the search. Elizabeth knew that she would scour the moldering bones of the abandoned zone until she found David...either dead or alive. Only then would she be able to lay this particular shade of her memory to rest and confront the other enormous obstacles that now confronted her.

She swept over the endless rows of derelict buildings, occasionally dropping down, her attention drawn by flickering light or the hushed whisper of voices. Both her hearing and vision were refined to levels of preternatural acuity and it was not long before she located the one she sought.

Willing herself to control her burgeoning excitement, the owl circled down and came to ground in the lightless recess of a service alley not one hundred feet from where her target now stood.

Stu Macevey stood rigidly in the center of the street. Though his face was inscrutable in the concealing shadows of the litter-strewn street, his emotions closely mirrored those of David Stillman as he had watched disaster descend upon the mission less than twenty-four hours before.

"Goddamnit Wayman, what a mess I've made," he whispered bitterly as he stood in the center of the deserted roadway. The razing of Wayman Carcavice's shelter for the homeless was to Macevey's mind incontrovertible proof that the mission had been compromised before it had even begun. Somehow, the gangs had come to see Carcavice as an instigator of their imminent demise and had decided to extract some vengeance from both Wayman and his defenseless street refugees. As Macevey was painfully aware, only Joubert knew that Stuart had undertaken his plan largely at Wayman's behest.

Gazing unblinkingly at the charred ruin of Wayman's hostel, Macevey cursed himself for not devising some contingency for extracting the homeless from the zone prior to the assault. Many of the very people he had set out to save had been slaughtered as the result of an operational oversight and Stuart found himself with another sorrowful entry into his growing catalogue of failures.

Earlier, he had suffered through a speech by the Mayor of the city, who had labeled the reoccupation of the zone as a resounding success and the rebirth of social justice in America. That fatuous and ostentatious label had sickened Macevey and he had nearly fled when the Mayor had introduced him as the lynchpin of the operation.

Now, as darkness fell to reclaim this little enclave of hell, Captain Macevey had returned to contemplate this monument to Seattle's resounding triumph. He glanced to his left. Two hundred yards up the street, Pacific Power was working frantically to set up temporary lighting at the intersection. The sight brought a twisted, embittered grin to Macevey's lips.

In his infinite wisdom, the Mayor had decided that one of the first priorities in establishing order in the zone would be to have lights activated at every intersection. As he had dramatically observed, "Turning on the lights will be a symbolic gesture...one that illustrates our commitment to re-establishing the greatness of our beautiful city."

Upon hearing this inane platitude, Stu had not been sure if he should laugh or cry. That such shallow men would attempt to anneal the woes of this city did not bode well for its future.

"The people who did this will pay, Wayman. That much I can promise you," Macevey vowed softly. Undoubtedly, many already had...thanks to Colonel Jonas and his proclivity for brutal violence. The abandoned zone's criminal element would be severely decimated when Stuart assumed command of his new precinct. Still there was now the matter of the Quisling – Joubert. Macevey quickly decided that he would settle that particular matter himself.

There as a slight shuffling sound from somewhere behind him and Macevey wheeled about, deftly drawing his gun as he did.

A single figure was watching him from the entrance to the service alley on the opposite side of the street. Macevey chanced a quick glance along the street in both directions. The street was deserted except for the power company employees working at either end of the block. His unmarked sedan sat some thirty yards away, parked along a crumbling curb like a sentinel.

Macevey quickly returned his attention to the figure who had taken two steps further into the street.

"Put the gun away, please. It would serve no purpose. Besides, I wish only to talk." The lilting voice was decidedly feminine. There was a discernible tone of authority in the voice and Macevey actually found himself lowering his service revolver.

"This is a restricted area. Civilians are not authorized to be here," Macevey informed the woman, who responded with a soft peel of laugher. In the next instant, the gun in his hand grew intolerably hot. His hand surrendered its grip on the weapon of its own accord and he watched helplessly as it clattered to the pavement. Fortunately, he had not released the safety and the weapon did not discharge.

Slowly, the woman walked across the pavement, the heels of her shoes ringing dramatically in the sudden silence. Despite his unease, Stuart found himself mesmerized. The woman was exquisitely beautiful and marvelously proportioned. Macevey could see this by the way the fabric of her knit dress clung lovingly to every curve. Her honey blond hair hung down to the middle of her back in a single braided cable. Her spectacular face was set off by two blue eyes that seemed iridescent in the bleak darkness. As she approached, her movements were languid and lithe and Macevey could sense that this woman possessed an immense power.

He tried to move, but found himself unable to drag his attention from the beguiling curve of her lips. ' _My God, she's hypnotizing me somehow_ ,' he thought, startled by the realization. By a sheer force of will, he dragged his eyes away from her face to his lost gun that now seemed impossibly distant, though he sat in the gutter near his feet.

"There is no need to be concerned, Stuart Macevey," the woman informed him mildly and his jaw dropped in surprise. "As I've said, I've only come to talk."

As a token of her benevolence, she bent down and retrieved his weapon, which she handed back to the incredulous police captain. "Be kind enough to put it back in its holster."

Wordlessly, Macevey complied. For a moment, the pair remained silent and Stuart was aware of her formidable gaze upon his face. He actually jumped when something as delicate as butterfly wings brushed his mind. Macevey immediately deduced that she was probing his mind.

"I sense an intrinsic goodness in your soul, Stuart," she suddenly disclosed. "I hope that we can conduct our business in a way that does not require I harm you."

"What is it you want?" he croaked in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own.

"Your attention and then your cooperation...in that specific order," she declared in a placid voice, but there was a subtle snap of iron in her tone that suggested it would be imprudent to refuse on either count.

Not bothering to await his reply, she gripped his upper right arm, just above the elbow, and began to guide him towards the mouth of the service alley. He was shocked by the enormity of her strength and knew that he could not resist her even if he had been so inclined.

Once in the alley, Elizabeth released Macevey and stepped back. The darkness here was absolute and Elizabeth wanted to be able to see Stuart's face clearly as she questioned him. If necessary, she could have simply stormed the corridors of his mind and ripped it apart in search of the knowledge she required, but the damage inflicted would have been permanent. Even in her desperation, Elizabeth refused to succumb to such temptations. Instead, she would solicit the truth in a more conventional way.

Holding her palms upward to form a bowl, she blew a breath into the hollow of her clasped hands. The breath coalesced into a dervish. Spinning like a mini gyre, it eventually erupted into a blue flame. Withdrawing her hands, she stood back, pleased with the floating flame that now illuminated the alley's interior.

Macevey gasped in wonder, his agitation tempered by awe. "How in God's name did you do that?"

Simpson merely smiled and shrugged evasively, while Macevey attempted to touch the hovering flame, quickly discovering that the flame was very hot indeed. Withdrawing his hand, he inquired, "These aren't tricks, are they?"

"No, they are not," Elizabeth intoned seriously. Macevey absorbed this for a moment, studying her exquisite face carefully. The perfection of her beauty staggered Stuart, but beyond that, he found something vaguely familiar about this woman. Then it came to him in a shocking burst. "Holy shit...you're the one the FBI is looking for...the truck stop explosion and the murder in Colorado."

He trailed off...feeling vulnerable and confused.

"Don't do anything rash," Elizabeth advised softly. "Yes, my name is Elizabeth Simpson...the same Elizabeth Simpson who vanished in Semelar twenty-five years ago. Quite obviously, I am no longer human...not in the physical sense of the word. As to the incidents you mention...I can only say that I have harmed no one."

Simpson fell silent. Something in her forthright manner convinced him that she was being truthful. "They also claim that you abducted a teenage girl...Cassandra Jasic."

Elizabeth's expression did not change. "Cassie is a teenage runaway who I picked up while crossing the plain states. She had been regularly assaulted at home...both physically and sexually. I'm trying to help her. Now, Stuart Macevey, I've been candid and it's time to reciprocate."

Stuart gestured for her to continue. "I've come here because there is a man that I must find. His name is David Stillman and like myself, he also vanished in the Semelar disaster of twenty-five years ago. I've searched for him and have received information that he may be here."

Macevey shook his head. "Here in the abandoned zone? That's improbable...no one lives here but thugs and the homeless."

A flicker rippled across her lovely face, allowing Stuart a brief glimpse of the intense pain that this odd creature kept concealed beneath the thin veneer of her impassive beauty. "It is entirely likely that David is infirmed and very probably homeless."

"Elizabeth, I sympathize with your problem," Macevey began deliberately, "I truly do, but in case you hadn't realized it, I have something of a situation here."

He gestured toward the street where the sounds of sporadic gunfire could still be heard. Elizabeth stepped closer, her eyes blazing. She gripped his right shoulder, shaking it slightly for emphasis. "It's imperative that you realize your most pressing situation is standing right in front of you. I'm desperate and time is at a premium. You're going to cooperate with me, Stuart. You can do it of your own volition or through coercion...but you will do it!"

She stared hard into his eyes for several moments and then dropped her hand and retreated a pace. Stuart pursed his lips and asked, "What do you expect me to do?"

"I want you to help me locate David Stillman."

Macevey barely managed to stifle a groan. This excursion into lunacy was becoming more macabre by the minute. Did she really expect him to help her find one homeless derelict in the middle of this chaos? One glance into those intense blue eyes made it clear that she expected precisely that. Patiently, he set about trying to explain the difficulties of what she was asking. "Elizabeth this is a one hundred square block area...portions of which are still hostile. It would require an army of policemen to properly search this area. With the destruction caused by the reoccupation, the process could be even more protracted. There is just no logical way that I could justify that expenditure of manpower now."

Simpson absorbed this thoughtfully, and nodded, "Surely, a part of this operation must entail providing some manner of shelter and aid for the homeless?"

Macevey could sense the couched entreaty and found that he could not lie in the face of her desperation. "Yes, but it's a strictly political and cursory effort. A few teams of rescue workers have been searching buildings to give the appearance that there is a great humanitarian concern at work here."

"You're saying there is not?" she demanded dangerously. Something in her tone advised Macevey to be wary. On impulse, he provided her with a brief summary of the operation as it had first been conceived.

Elizabeth listened with increasing horror to his description of how the assault had been motivated by a spree of savage murders. The thought of David been set to a human torch sickened her.

"Were you able to identify any of the victims?" she inquired while dreading the answer.

Macevey shook his head. "The bodies were so badly burned that identification was virtually impossible."

"What about dental records and such?" She groped. Again, Macevey could offer her nothing but the grim truth. "Elizabeth, the homeless are the phantoms of America. We have no clear idea how many they are or who they are. Their contact with structured society is minimal to non-existent. When they die, they're nothing but homeless bodies to be buried in the city potters fields. These people live well below the range of normal vision and that is precisely where they die," a somber Macevey concluded.

"This Wayman Carcavice obviously saw them...if David did live here, he would know."

Now it was Stu's face that reflected a clear and incisive pain. Inclining his head toward the street, he remarked softly, "I'm afraid he can't be of any help either."

Comprehension filtered into Elizabeth's limpid eyes and she averted her gaze to the ground, her breath hitching in her chest as she struggled to retain her composure. Save for Cynara, she was utterly alone and the task before her seemed utterly impossible. David could be dead...a moldering skeleton in one of these derelict buildings...and no one would ever know. The image evoked a plummeting grief more profound than anything she'd ever experienced. Macevey felt her pain as though it was a palpable thing on his flesh. "Wayman recognized and understood these people and appreciated the true nature of their plight. These were the true victims of our abandonment of these areas. Leaving the homeless unprotected in these areas was akin to leaving sheep penned with a pack of starving wolves. They tolerated Wayman...at least, they did. I believe that the gangs discovered that Wayman was partially responsible for today's raid and decided to even the score before the fact."

"How many people would you say stayed at the shelter on any given night?"

"Wayman would say that his house was always full. The shelter could hold maybe forty people. The gangs left us a rather grizzly display when we first stormed the zone this morning." Macevey described the array of charred human bodies that had been suspended to greet their arrival. Elizabeth listened, mortified by the savagery of the act. When Macevey had concluded his grim tale, she allowed her chin to settle to her chest. When she again looked up, the brilliant gleam in her eyes seemed to have ebbed. "You were right in saying that there was little you could do for me."

Simpson turned and began to walk away, but Stuart felt compelled to offer her some manner of consolation. "Ms. Simpson..."

She turned back to Macevey, arching an elegant eyebrow questioningly. Macevey took a step towards her. "I'm going to find Mr. Stillman's picture from records. The computer can apply an aging factor within minutes. Then, I'm going to set up a series of scouring teams and disseminate the picture to them."

"I would greatly appreciate that, Stuart Macevey," she whispered and with a slight bow, she began to walk into the dark recesses of the alley. After a few steps, she paused and turned to consider the police Captain. After a brief hesitation, she intoned, "Do not allow yourself to be consumed by guilt and remorse over what has come to pass today. Your motives were noble and ultimately something good will come of this...however improbable that might now seem."

Then she was moving away, leaving Macevey to wonder just who this David Stillman was and how he had come to earn the devotion of such an extraordinary creature. "If I have some news, how do I contact you?"

"I'll find you, Stuart Macevey," she called without looking back, leaving a bemused Macevey staring after her as she vanished into the mouth of the darkness.

Chapter Twenty Seven

1

While the citizens of Seattle were transfixed by the incredible events that were unfolding in a part of their city that they had come to regard as alien, everyone seemed oblivious to the large group of people who were presently congregating at the southern edge of the city. Though they numbered in excess of ten thousand as darkness brought a temporary halt to the chaos in the abandoned zone, this group managed to escape notice of the preoccupied police and media. Indeed, this group appeared to pose no menace, nor raise even a curious interest. Their conduct was subdued and polite and there was very little interaction in their ranks.

Their general posture was one of expectant, yet patient anticipation for the arrival of their leader was imminent.

If one was so inclined and particularly observant, it would have been possible to detect some rather strange and unsettling characteristics shared by this seemingly harmless assembly. To a one, every vehicle was adorned by stickers that warned on the onset of the apocalypse and promising a fiery retribution to the world's sinners. If one was to look closer, they would find that every vehicle with an assortment of weaponry that would have made the zone gangs green with envy.

These people had come to wage holy war in the name of the lamb whose teachings they had long ago forgotten.

2

The black Fury cruised through the maze of service lanes and alleyways, using only its dim orange running lights for illumination. Behind the wheel, a sullen Arturo Richeras drove in brooding silence, guzzling down great draughts of the vodka-wine mix that would occasionally find its way into his hands.

After the bombardment had finally ceased, a restless Richeras had decided to hit the streets, inspired by thoughts of the damage such a sustained pounding must have inflicted. As he cursed, darting from alley maze to alley maze to avoid police detection, a small, still lucid portion of Arturo's brain informed him that the lifestyle he had been living since he was a small child had come to a dramatic and abrupt end. In general, however, this realization lacked the power to move the Columbian, who always suspected that the day would come when the gringos would want to take back what they thought belonged to them. More pertinent still, none of it really made a rat's ass of difference because soon this place would be nothing but fucking charcoal dust. He looked down at the seat beside him where the detonator waited patiently. Arturo's fevered mind could produce no image of what his life would become the moment after he put the box to use.

Even that lack of direction had little impact on Richeras, though other members of the Pyronators were beginning to question the sanity of what they were doing. The idea of setting a few worthless derelict shitheads on fire had once seemed like a rather amusing diversion. Now, in the face of Arturo's growing dementia, the few remaining Pyronators realized that this particular diversion had taken them far down the road to black lunacy.

The paleass gringo that Arturo was dealing with frightened the other gang members, though they would rather have died than admit as much. Beneath his cordial and aloof nature, they could smell something whose evil dwarfed their own. Richeras, however, saw none of this, instead seeing a source of fulfillment for all of his twisted visions.

Arturo came to an intersection with a street. The lights were on and so Richeras knew that a police presence had been established in this area. Getting caught with the detonator would not do and so he brought the car to a halt in the purple shadows and killed the running lights. He climbed out of the car and crept to the edge of the building, and finding the street deserted, he jogged back to the car and crawled across the street and into the adjacent series of lanes.

Further along the trash-strewn lane, he switched the running lights back on and began to accelerate smoothly. Just then, a hunched shadow slid in front of him. Arturo reacted with a curse and slammed the brakes on, spilling the vodka-wine mix down the front of his shirt.

"Cocksucking motherfucker!" he exclaimed eloquently and pulled angrily at the headlight switch. Harsh halogen light filled the alleyway, spearing a single figure in their twin glare. Richeras squinted into the harsh gleam and let out a malefic whoop of delight. "Son of a bitch, I can't believe my good fucking luck!"

"That's the bastard you've been wantin' to get for weeks, ain't it, Turo?"

"Fucking A it is," Arturo replied absently. Richeras was not certain why this particular derelict irritated him so much...he only knew that he did and in the world of the shallow monsters of his ilk, that was more than enough. Without taking his eyes off of the man, he called over is shoulder, "Canz, do we still have those Jerry cans in the trunk?"

"We do, Turo," Conzales offered readily. "Five gallons filled right to the fuckin' top...enough to light that fucker up like the fourth of July, if you like."

"Oh, I like alright," Turo intoned softly and calmly opened the car door and stepped out into the alley, flipping Conzales the keys. "Get the cans...the rest of you come with me."

The Pyronators filed out and began to follow Richeras who had set out after the single derelict. Richeras moved slowly...unhurriedly. In his heightened state of perception, the Columbian knew that the pale-ass bastard was not going to elude him again...no way.

3

For nearly a quarter century, David Stillman had survived life on the streets on instinct alone...an internal auto-pilot that alerted him to and guided him through that myriad of dangers that such a life entailed. With the return of his faculty for conscious thought, that instinct had suddenly deserted him.

He wandered blindly down the alleyways, turning and twisting through reeking drifts of rotting garbage. He saw no one and feared that some new twist of fate had left him alone in this hellish wasteland. Suddenly, he began to run, compelled by an atavistic dread and a need to prove that he was not alone in this cesspool. This exigent need drove him to sprint directly into the path of Arturo Richeras and his small band of human monsters.

The slamming of the brakes jolted him from his reverie and he heard the strident cursing of an enraged driver. Stillman peered at the black car, but his gaze could not penetrate its interior. He quickly decided that it would be prudent to beat a hasty retreat. There was definitely something predatory about that jutting chrome grill.

Pivoting about, Stillman began to retreat along the alleyway. Behind him, there came the sound of slamming doors and a series of discreet cat calls and taunts in broken English.

Heart hammering wildly, Stillman began to run, chancing a brief glance over his shoulder. With his visual acuity augmented by mounting fear, David could see that there were five of them. Two had moved to the rear of the car and the other three had moved to the front. One stood directly in front of that particularly nasty grill and David thought crazily, ' _I wouldn't do that if I were you, buddy_!'

The person directly in front of the car issued terse instructions and the other two fanned out and began to move down the sides of the alley. They loped after Stillman with the total confidence of proficient hunters. The two who had moved to the rear of the car now returned to join the apparent leader. Each carried something in his hand and when Stillman recognized the vague silhouette, a horrified groan escaped his lips.

Now, he turned and began to sprint in earnest. Someone bellowed and soon he could hear five pairs of sneakered feet pounding after him. David led the Pyronators on a winding, twisting chase that would have discouraged and lost most pursuit, but the demented Richeras was dogged in his madness.

Though Stillman's knowledge of the abandoned zone's many twists and turns was extensive, his fifty-two year old legs were no match for the Columbian youths. Finally, lungs screaming frantically for oxygen, David turned down a service alley only to discover that there was only one point of ingress.

He gazed dejectedly at the slick stone walls of the buildings and sighed in resignation. He turned warily to face the five as they entered the alleyway. Seeing that their quarry was trapped, they spread out and began to advance toward him, hooting and braying as they came. The two Columbians on the flanks of the pack began to unscrew the tops of the Jerry cans.

Watching them converge suffused David with a grim determination to die fighting. The dark irony of this ignoble end filled him with a bitter rage. Years of his life had been stolen from him and when he finally regains cognizance, his life would be ended by a gang of savages in a dirty back alley.

Backing up slowly, he scanned the heaps of rubbish and his eyes fell upon a protruding piece of iron pipe that had once been part of a gate. With a mighty tug, he pulled the pipe free and turned to face the five, who abruptly stopped in their tracks. Stillman brandished the pipe and raged, "Alright, you little fuckers. You wanna light me up? Then come and do it, but I promise that I'll be sending some of you to the emergency room before you do."

The others looked to Richeras in confusion. Usually the pathetic bastards, once resigned to the fact that they been caught, were docile if not openly apologetic. This one seemed determined to fight. Richeras smiled and brushed sweaty black strands of hair from his forehead. In Spanish, he remarked, "The pale ass wants to play...so let's play."

From the rear pocket of his faded jeans, Arturo produced a straight razor which he opened with a practiced flick of his wrist. He was privately delighted that this particular derelict had decided to fight. It would make the inevitable conclusion all the sweeter.

Confidently, the three began to advance, while the pair with the gas cans hung back and waited for the others to subdue the derelict.

David tried to suppress his panicked urge to swing wildly, instead trying to be deliberate in his aim. Richeras approached directly from the front, switching the razor from one hand to the next. The other two moved to flank David who was forced to give ground so as to avoid being encircled. He retreated until he was three feet from the rear wall of the alley and then he squared himself to fight.

The Columbian to his right feinted high and then jabbed low, aiming his thrust at Stillman's midsection. David detected the movement and read the feint. Instead of trying to intercept the movement, he stepped back and jabbed the four foot length of pipe in the attacker's exposed face.

The blow was glancing, but it struck the Columbian high on the right cheek. The rusted end of the pipe ripped through flesh, opening a deep cut that sent sheets of blood cascading down the teenagers face. He dropped his knife and clutched at his lacerated flesh, shrieking as hot blood spurted between his splayed fingers.

Lithely, Stillman took a single step forward and jabbed the pipe directly into the Columbian's crotch. The youth emitted a strangled gasp and fell to the dirty pavement, rolling around in silver agony.

In the few seconds it had taken to dispatch the one Columbian, both Richeras and the other Columbian darted forward, Arturo slashed the razor across Stillman's left shoulder, but the blow lacked the force to slice through the thick material of Stillman's duffle coat. David reacted by swinging the pipe in a tight arc that caught Richeras on the right bicep just below the shoulder.

Arturo grunted and staggered back out of range. He did not fall nor did he surrender his grip on the razor. After the first Columbian had fallen, David had hoped that he could dissuade the remaining four if he could inflict enough damage, but the lunatic gleam in Richeras' dark eyes informed him that this would not end until he was dead.

To that end, Conzales ducked low and drove his shoulder into David's side. Both David and his assailant went sprawling to the left as the pair landed heavily on the boy Stillman had disabled earlier. The air was forced from David's lungs in a rush as the pipe flew from his grasp upon impact. He twisted onto his stomach and tried to scramble after the weapon, but Conzales was still atop Stillman, clawing and punching like a caged lion. Richeras calmly walked up to the pipe and kicked it down the alley. Then he turned and began to belabor David with a barrage of vicious kicks. Soon Stillman was reduced to covering his head, which was now slick with his own blood.

"Stand him up!" Turo cried hoarsely. "Stand that fucker up!"

Conzales hauled a dazed Stillman to his feet while Richeras retrieved a straight razor. He flicked the razor expertly and soon sheets of blood were pouring down David's cheek.

"Cut the bastard up, Turo!" the Columbian on the ground cried up through his agony. "Carve him up good!" Arturo nodded, intending to do precisely that. The razor flashed again and a bloody line appeared across the back of David's hand. Again, and a bloody flap of skin peeled away from his forehead.

Richeras signaled and the two who had been assigned to guard the Jerry cans came forward and doused David with gasoline. Soon, its pungent reek filled the alley.

"Hold his fucking hand out!" Richeras commanded thickly. "I'm gonna cut his fingers off one at a time." Conzales nodded grimly and grabbed David's right wrist, extending the arm towards Arturo, whose face was spattered with the derelict's blood.

Turo was about to cut off Stillman's right thumb when the alley was illuminated by a harsh white light.

4

Fate certainly displayed a keen sense for the dramatic flare when it allowed Cynara to be the one to find David Stillman. It had been she who had delivered him to the void and now she would be the one to rescue him from her dark enchantment.

Once over the abandoned zone, she had veered off from the owl with the intention of scouring the northern half of the abandoned zone. The eagle had swooped low and sailed through the streets flying off of a north to south, south to north grid. The ten blocks nearest the harbor were still being hotly contested and she had lingered there, fascinated by the lethal dive of the Apache helicopters and the brilliant explosions that lit the harbor front like a deadly sun.

Concluding that it was improbable that Stillman would be anywhere near the battle zone, Cynara circled back and began to work her way eastward.

It was the screeching of brakes that drew her attention at first, a discordant sound that rose up from somewhere within the maze of alleys that led through the blocks like arteries. Sailing quietly through this maze, the eagle discovered five men in pursuit of a single figure.

Compelled by her naturally strong sense of curiosity, Cynara decided to monitor this unfolding bit of drama.

The figure, inspired by sheer terror, gave the five a game chase, but the pursuers were as tenacious as pit bulls and it soon became evident that they would have their quarry.

Driven by a perverse need to experience the prey's terror...if only vicariously...the eagle circled lower, attempting to divine the runner's thoughts. In an argent flash of revelation, she realized that the intended victim was David Stillman just as he rounded into the alley where he would wage his grim battle with Arturo Richeras and the Pyronators. Saravic watched the pursuers swarm into the alley and then swooped to a landing, quickly transmogrifying into her human form in mere minutes.

Closing her eyes, she gathered her puissance and unleashed it in a telepathic bolt of pure exigency. "Elizabeth, come quickly.!"

She repeated the message in one cannonading blast and then moved to the mouth of the alley. Instead of entering, she hesitated and pressed herself into a pool of shadow. From her perspective, she could see that David Stillman was pressed against the far wall, where he brandished a piece of pipe while three assailants threatened him with knives.

While she watched a much older Stillman struggled valiantly against hopeless odds, a moral conflict began to rage in her heart and mind...one that would define who she would be from this juncture forth. The old Cynara, the princess of darkness, attempted to reassert herself then. If she stood idly by and allowed the Columbians to kill Stillman, her major obstacle to Elizabeth's heart would be removed. Inevitably...inexorably, she would reclaim her lover and all that was required was that she stand back and allow events to run their natural course. For the old Saravic, the demon who had been egocentric and motivated purely by self-interest, the choice would have been automatic.

Yet, in her new incarnation, Cynara's soul was tempered by an inherent morality to see beyond her former sensibilities. By this one refusal to intervene, Cynara understood that she would be taking the first steps along a road that would ultimately lead back to her former state of total malevolence.

Each successive act of evil would become that much easier to perpetrate and inevitably she would become the monster she had once been...an eventuality she now found unpalatable.

Still, she hesitated, even as Stillman fell and the Columbians pounced on him. She gazed on, her face twisted by indecision, as they doused him with gasoline and one particularly sadistic bastard began to carve him with a straight razor.

Despite her professed reform, Saravic understood that she would be drawn to evil just as an alcoholic would always be attracted to the bottle. The onerous task of leading a virtuous life would weigh on her like a millstone.

She could see that Stillman was bleeding at an alarming rate now and the sight sent waves of intense pleasure coursing through her tight flesh. Oh how she despised this weak, inconsequential man that he could somehow captivate Elizabeth so completely. She glanced down to see that her long fingers were hooked into claws and were scoring the muscles of her thighs. She was tottering on the edge of the abyss and what happened in the next few seconds would decide if she backed away or plunge in.

Allowing Stillman to die would be the impetus required to propel her over the edge and into the darkness where she would lose everything in time. Conversely, if she elected to act she would be able to satiate the dark urges of her nature on the scum who deserved no less.

Though she found it reprehensible to act on David's behalf, the thought of appeasing her growing appetite compelled her to step into the alley just as Richeras was about to cut off Stillman's thumb.

5

Elizabeth spent the next while wondering aimlessly through the maze of trash-strewn, vermin infested service lanes, trying to come to terms with the apparent reality of Stillman's death. For her, David Stillman had transcended the role of mere mortal, instead becoming a symbolic gateway through which waited her redemption.

Now, after what she had learned from Stuart Macevey, she must face the grim likelihood that David was lost to her.

Abruptly, she sagged against the nearest wall and slid down to the ground, unmindful of the cold puddles of dirty water that soaked her impervious flesh. Finally, the tempest of emotions that had hovered over her since this odyssey had first begun, broke with a bewildering fury. Her body was wracked by convulsive sobbing as anguish, sharp as the talons of a carrion bird, ripped at her insides.

Somehow, through her unwitting stupidity and obsession, she had managed to lose everything. David Stillman was probably dead...as was her precious son, whom she had abandoned to peril while pursuing a fool's quest.

It occurred to her then as she shook in the thrall of her grief that she should have been able to predict this sorry outcome. Perhaps this explained her impulsive decision to leave her dagger in Nathaniel's home in Boston, thus separating herself from self-immolation by a continent. In this light, that action seemed craven.

The thought of Cassie and Contayza compelled her to rise while absently brushing tears from her eyes.

She was still trying to make an accommodation with her despair and the prospect of living beyond this awful moment, when Cynara's voice detonated in her mind like an artillery shell. "Elizabeth, come quickly!"

6

When Arturo's vision adapted to the harsh light, he turned from the gore-spattered Stillman to find a single woman standing at the head of the short service lane. If that was not incredible enough in itself, Richeras saw that the bitch was incredibly beautiful. She was standing with one leg turned slightly to the side and her long arms crossed beneath her delectable breasts. Her bewitching black eyes twinkled mischievously. There was something brazen almost wanton in the way that she was regarding them.

She dropped her arms and took three steps into the service lane. Turo watched her, both curious and seriously aroused. Canzales allowed Stillman to slump to the ground and asked, "Is this shit for real?"

A lecherous grin spread across Turo's face and he offered a reply that he would soon come to rue, "I do believe this is our lucky day."

Despite his bravado, there was something unsettling about the woman's unaccountable presence. In her dove gray blouse and matching slacks she appeared as casually elegant as someone making a grand entrance into an exclusive social event. Nothing in her expression suggested the slightest presence of fear where there should have been naked terror. Richeras' mind also offered the opinion that the sourceless, blinding light was also a cause for alarm, but he ignored its warning, her eyes riveted on her prominent nipples that stood out from the silk like mountains from the ocean.

She stopped and spread her arms. How tall and exquisite she appeared and every eye swept hungrily over the long curving perfection of her body. Cynara could feel lust radiating from these teenagers like rank heat from a swamp and slowly, deliberately undid several pearl buttons on her blouse, revealing an intoxicating expanse of deep cleavage. Playfully, she purred, "I hate to interrupt your fun, but I'd like to suggest another pastime...if any of you feel up to it."

The Columbians hooted and catcalled as Cynara spread her long arms in a gesture of invitation. One of the teenagers glanced at Richeras and Arturo gave his silent approval with a nod.

The boy came forward, almost salivating as he did, trying to affect a macho swagger that nearly caused Cynara to laugh aloud. Instead, she unfastened another button to reveal a gray satin bra that strained mightily to contain the bronze glory of her full breasts. She could see his excitement lying along his thigh like a piece of pipe and opened her arms to greet him.

The Columbian stopped before her, momentarily disconcerted to discover that she was nearly seven inches taller of the pair. The heady scent of sandalwood and the siren's call of those magnificent breasts banished those misgivings from his mind.

He reached boldly for the flaps of her blouse, intending to rip it off in a gesture to impress his mates. Instead, the statuesque beauty caught his wrists in a grip that shocked him with its power.

Glancing down at him from over the cruel ridges of her cheek bones, the Columbian thought that he could detect something savage in the infinite depth of those impossibly dark eyes. Then she jerked him to her, pulling his face into the plush valley of her breasts, while one hand found his erect penis through the rough fabric of his jeans, banishing all coherent thought from his mind.

She could feel his hot breath against her skin and repressed a shudder of revulsion, though she continued to expertly work his throbbing cock through the thick denim.

The teenager was nearly delirious with pleasure, though he feared his hammering heart might actually explode. Abruptly, his entire body stiffened, every muscle standing out in sharp relief. The pleasure seemed excruciating, unbearable in its intensity and it seemed to go on for an eternity, passing into the realm of physical agony.

The Columbian's eyes snapped open and he uttered a soundless scream. She gazed down upon him with a humorless grin of shark-like proportion. He attempted to pull back, but found himself caught in a vice as though two plates of steel were grinding his groin into pulp.

"Go to sleep, little boy," she cooed tenderly. In the next moment, the Columbian's dying eyes registered a rapier movement as the demon's hand sliced his esophagus...though what he actually saw was a crack-nailed eagle talon. Blood spewed out in a geyser and he died with a bemused expression on his agonized face.

Cynara released the Columbian youth and he tumbled bonelessly to the ground, his body quaking through its final death dance.

The three remaining vertical Columbians gaped in stunned incredulity and for a moment, a charged silence descended upon the alley. It was Conzales who found his voice first. "Holy fuck, Turo...what did she do to him? What the fuck did the bitch do to him?"

"Shut the fuck up, Canzo!" Turo snapped, his irritation masking the burgeoning sense that all was not well in his universe. He tried to focus his mind on the problem at hand...his perspiration-drenched face actually screwing up in lines of intense concentration. He scrutinized the devil-bitch closely. She was primly smoothing the pleat of her now bloody slacks and then it occurred to Richeras. Shit, it was glaringly obvious! "The puta's got a blade, Canzo. That's all...carve the whore up!"

There was a dawning light in Canzales' eyes and as the natural order of things imposed itself upon the situation, he began to smile. He and the other rat-faced teenager drew their blades and began to advance towards Cynara. Cynara slapped her hands together in delight and exclaimed, "It seems we want to change games. Seeing that variety is indeed the spice of life, I'm more than willing to be accommodating."

The two youths circled to Cynara's left and right, both feinting attacks in the hope of drawing her attention and thus allowing the other a clear line of attack.

A tense Richeras watched his two comrades converge upon the mysterious woman. He was surprised by his anxiety and suddenly wished that he had never chased the derelict into this God-forsaken alley.

Behind Richeras, a dazed David Stillman raised his head. Already, he felt enervated by blood loss as his scalp wounds poured forth crimson rivers. He pawed at the blood with the back of his hand and tried to focus on the tumult that was unfolding around him...not understanding why he was still alive.

Stillman was utterly astounded by the tableau of madness that greeted him when the world finally swam into focus. One Columbian lay unmoving on the dirty pavement, while another two, both wielding blades, converged upon a woman who seemed totally unconcerned by the threat of imminent violence. Richeras was watching the situation unfold with an almost palpable tension emanating from his hunched frame.

Stillman squinted to study the woman, again pawing at the blood that was occluding his vision. He knew that staunching the flow was becoming critically important, but he found himself enthralled by the mysterious woman's exotic countenance...a beauty of mythic proportion. The face was that of a stranger and yet the general posture of almost casual arrogance conjured a single image in Stillman's mind...Cynara Simonovic.

David's heart began to hammer in his chest. He attempted to rise, but found that his body was too depleted to comply. Instead, he lay upon the wet pavement, panting like a steam engine. Richeras' head whipped around, his blazing eyes fixed upon the sprawled Stillman. "Don't worry pale ass...I haven't forgotten about you. As soon as we finish with this cunt, we'll get back to you. Maybe you can fuck her corpse...would you like that, pale ass?"

Now he turned his attention back to the boys who were about to teach this high-boxed puta a lesson that she would not soon forget. What Turo saw sent an emasculating fear ripping through the pit of his guts.

Cynara elected to ignore the second attacker completely and set her attention squarely upon Canzales, who grinned at her with rotting teeth, while deftly shifting the knife from hand to hand. Saravic kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her blouse, chuckling in derision at Conzales' wide-eyed reaction to her heavy, satin-clad breasts. "I'm surprised that you can't think of something more mutually pleasing to stick into me than a knife. Nonetheless, show me what you've got...cut me good."

Conzales frowned, hesitated briefly and then lunged ahead with the intention of burying the blade deep in her striated abdomen. His mind simply lacked the capacity to internalize what happened next. Just when it seemed a virtual certainty that he would succeed in running the blade through her navel, she appeared to flicker and vanish.

He glanced around in utter bewilderment just before feeling a powerful arm encircle his neck and he found himself being pulled backwards. He could feel her erect nipples digging into the flesh of his back and though he knew it was utterly impossible, he realized that she had somehow moved around him. His struggles were completely futile and soon the hand clutching the knife was caught in a vice-like grip. Through his terror, he could feel her hot, sweet breath on his cheek. "Now, let see who sticks what into whom."

She began to steadily force the knife hand upwards until the tip of the blade was directly oriented on a point between his eyes. From this perspective, the gleaming blade seemed impossibly sharp. Conzales began to scream then, a high, shrill screech that echoed off the surrounding buildings and up into the low ebony sky. Concerned that his braying would attract the attention of the roving patrols of National Guardsmen, Cynara exerted a quick pressure and crushed Conzales larynx. He emitted a strangled squeak the second before Cynara drove the switchblade into his right eye that burst with a hollow pop. When she felt his body sag, Cynara threw the corpse into the nearest brick wall with enough force to cause the skull to burst like a ripe melon.

"That...isn't possible!" Richeras stammered, backing away and shaking his head in negation. In his agitation, he had forgotten about Stillman and he stumbled over the derelict, sitting down hard and severely lacerating his tongue in the process. Salty blood filled his mouth, causing him to gag and his stomach to roll queasily. He glanced over at Stillman, to find the bloody derelict regarding him through bleary eyes. "I'd run if I were you," the pale-ass croaked weakly and offered Richeras a bloody grin. Arturo nearly screamed in response to the sheer horror of that awful, bloody face. "I'd run until my lungs burst."

Richeras responded with an unenthusiastic kick, but then lurched to his feet, thinking that it might be expedient to heed pale-ass' advice. There were greater objectives to be accomplished and he couldn't risk everything over a puta and a fucking wino.

Cynara stood with her head tilted slightly forward and her brow furrowed in concentration, her eyes fixed squarely on the one remaining Columbian. The youth held his weapon in fingers that trembled badly. He drew his gaze from the demon woman and cast a longing glance over his left shoulder. His feet actually began to dance in place as he contemplated running. Saravic divined his intention and raised her right hand in a gesture of summation. At the entrance to the service alley, a single argent spark flickered to life. As the petrified Columbian watched, that single spark erupted into a bank of argent flame that rapidly spread to block any possible egress from the alley.

The Columbian uttered a chilling cry of terror as the front of his jeans darkened as his bladder succumbed to fear.

"No way out," Cynara pointed out softly. "I see that you're afraid and perhaps I've not been entirely fair in the way I've played the game. Tell you what...I'm going to let you have the first shot. I promise not to move or raise a finger until you've had your chance."

The Columbian regarded her doubtfully, his eyes shifting to Richeras, who was hunched against the opposite wall as though hoping to simply blend into the stone. Seeing little alternative, he ventured forward, preparing to flee if the demon woman made the slightest offensive move.

Cynara remained utterly still, with her hands clasped loosely behind her back, offering her bare abdomen to his blade. Finally, driven by adrenalin and intolerable agitation, the youth cried out and lunged forward. An expression of relief and triumph surfaced on his sallow face as the eight inch blade sank into his tormentor's abdomen. He glanced up into her face, wanting to relish her expression of agony. Instead, he was greeted by a radiant smile and his jubilation quickly congealed first into consternation and then consuming dread as the knife continued to penetrate until his entire hand vanished into her flesh.

The Columbian screeched in revulsion and attempted to pull his hand free, but found that it was held fast as though it was encased in concrete. Cynara's hands came up from behind her back and wrapped around the boy's skull, pulling him closer until his face was mere inches from hers. In a professorial tone, she began to explain his predicament. "The molecular structure of my body is extremely dynamic in nature. That is to say...I can change consistency at will, essentially becoming as solid or pliable as a specific situation requires. Something that might be of immediate interest to you personally would be that I can increase or decrease my body temperature through an incredible range."

Finally, the implication of Cynara's revelation sank through the layers of the youth's terror and he began to tug frantically at his entrapped hand, while flailing wildly at Saravic, who absorbed the blows without reaction. Exhausted, the youth stopped flailing and fell to his knees, clutching at his wrist where it vanished into the prison of Cynara's flesh.

Slowly, the heat began to increase. Shriek after agonized shriek tore from the teenagers lips as the pain escalated into regions he would not have thought possible. Saravic leaned forward and snarled, "And now you know how it feels, you little cocksucker!"

Then Columbian then fell onto his back, clutching the blackened stump of his arm, while the switchblade clattered to the pavement behind Saravic. Now, Cynara turned to Richeras. "Well, my friend, it looks like you're the only one left."

"Stay the fuck away from me," Arturo screamed, circling away from Saravic. He ventured closed to the curtain of argent flames, momentarily considering trying to charge through them, but the intense heat banished the thought from his mind.

In the blink of an eye, she was beside him, though Arturo had detected not the slightest hint of movement. She gripped his shoulders and lifted him from the ground until their eyes were level. "I'd derive an immense pleasure from killing you slowly. To keep someone lingering on the brink of death is an art that I long ago mastered. Fortunately for you, there is someone who will undoubtedly want to deal with you herself."

With this, she effortlessly threw him across the alley where he landed amidst a scatter of packing cases. Upon impact, the rusty metal strapping wrapped around his arms and legs like writhing snakes, leaving him bound and helpless to await whatever death was surely to follow. He could only wonder how one woman could bring utter ruin down upon him so quickly and so thoroughly. It had been less than five minutes since this woman had stepped into the service alley.

Cynara shifted her gaze over the service alley and then down on her bloody torso, forcing herself to be calm. She was conscious of what had transpired in the last few minutes in the vague, disconnected manner of a dream that is both vivid and tactile. Her gaze happened on the three Columbians she had killed, scarcely able to believe the violence of their destruction. Cynara shuddered at the grave implications of what she had just done. Despite her aspirations towards civility, the savage aspect of her nature was still very much alive and well. Slowly, she drifted over to where Stillman laid, pausing briefly to break the neck of the first Columbian youth David had managed to disable.

She stood over the prone derelict, trying to fathom what it was about this rather inconsequential little man that had so absorb an exotic beauty like Elizabeth Simpson. He was an indecisive, weak-willed man really, with a proven history of failure when confronted with trying situations and yet her beloved Elizabeth had risked everything to find him.

Cynara shook her head in bemusement. The complexities of love...how many centuries would she require just to gain a rudimentary understanding of its nature? Shaking her head in dismay, she began to take inventory of David's physical condition. It was obvious that he had lost a great deal of blood. His facial features were obscured and distorted by a slick coat of crimson. His hair was matted and plastered to his skull where a deep wound continued to trickle blood languorously. She could sense the pain radiating from his body in slow, pulsing waves.

Again, the thought occurred to her that everyone would be better served by David Stallman's death, but she immediately rejected the idea. Instead, she stepped over Stillman's body and squatted down, hesitantly placing the flat of her palm on his scalp wound. Closing her eyes, she allowed a small measure of her vital energy to flow through the ligature and bones of her immortal body and into Stillman's battered flesh.

That energy coalesced around the point of contact in the form of a diffuse yellow light. David's knotted muscles began to relax as Cynara's life force began to anneal his pain. Cracked bones began to knit and torn flesh began to heal. Soon dried blood was the only evidence of the traumatic beating David had suffered.

When she again opened her eyes, he was gazing up at her, regarding her with a wary uncertainty.

"You know who I am, don't you?" she inquired, her voice neutral.

"I know what you are," Stillman responded significantly.

Saravic nodded, "But do you have the slightest idea why I've come?"

"To kill me," Stillman intoned bitterly, knowing that there was nothing he could do to oppose her. He recalled the vow she had made on that tempestuous night. "Before you do, I have one question...what have you done to Elizabeth?"

Cynara did not respond at once, content to allow Stillman to think that she had come to put paid to her old promise. Clutching the collar of his duffle coat, she pulled him closer until their faces were only inches apart. How frail he seemed...how eminently killable. ' _Get here soon, Elizabeth...please_ ,' she thought, knowing that the lust to take this man's life would soon be insatiable. Deliberately, she replied, "She'll provide you with the answer to that herself, little man."

David's eyes widened as the implications of Cynara's response filtered through. In a quavering voice, he demanded, "You're saying that she is here...where ever the hell here is?"

"She'll be joining us shortly, no doubt."

A dampening shadow rippled across David's face. "Is she coming to be a witness while you kill me?"

' _The dark irony of this would be vintage Cynara_ ,' David thought and thus he was all the more surprised when she shook her head. "Much has changed since I sent you into the darkness, Stillman, though it would be more appropriate if Elizabeth was the one to apprise you of all the changes that have come over the world."

David nodded slightly, his mind racing with a thousand questions all underscored by a staggering sense of incredulity. Suddenly, Saravic's manner became grave...her tone frigid. "One thing Elizabeth will not tell you is how much she has sacrificed and risked to find you. So I will...my former masters wish to destroy her. They have woven a complex scheme of revenge and deception to achieve that end. That scheme is on the brink of culmination. She should be fleeing for her life, but instead she has been searching for you and thus exposing herself to her enemies."

Somberly, he asked, "What is it you want me to do?"

"I want you to be a selfless man and not the self-possessed, spineless gelding you were before that final night in Semelar. Encourage Elizabeth to do the things she must in order to survive and not be shackled by an emotional cripple. Primarily, you should implore her to listen to me."

"Why should I trust you?" Stillman challenged.

"Your alternative is to watch Elizabeth die," Cynara replied harshly and David could detect not hint of prevarication in the glint of her dark eyes.

"Elizabeth Simpson is perfectly capable of looking after her own interests," someone announced and both Stillman and Saravic glanced up to find the lovely blond standing before the curtain of flame at the head of the service alley.

Her statuesque body swayed slightly and her deep blue eyes glistened with emotion. The tight grin finally slipped and Elizabeth began to sob. Stumbling blindly, she crossed the alley.

In this way, Elizabeth Simpson was reunited with David Stillman.

Chapter Twenty Eight

1

Stuart Macevey sat at the Formica table, staring vacantly at the screen of his palm top computer, trying to digest the improbability of what had been revealed to him there. Around him, the large trailer which served as a command and control center for the Seattle Civil Authority was abuzz with activity, though Macevey's attention was focused solely on the LCD display. The mood in the C and C trailer was one of guarded optimism and relief. The National Guard had effectively secured the abandoned zone and most of the gang members were in custody. Still, there was no real jubilation over the triumph as too many good men and women had died to secure it.

Colonel Jonas had been elevated to the lofty pinnacle of national hero and the Mayor was proclaiming Seattle to be the corner stone city in America's new era of social reform, though soon he would be grappling with the problems of resurrecting an effectively dead area of the city.

Macevey was only dimly aware of all of this and though he could have experienced even a moderate pleasure in seeing his work come to fruition, he found his attention riveted on the compelling case of Elizabeth Simpson, the exotic, arcane creature who had come to him in search of help that he could not provide.

Upon returning to the C and C trailer, Macevey had requested a records check on Elizabeth Simpson. The information he had garnered from local, state and federal sources was both fascinating and cryptic. Opening his desk drawer, he withdrew a pad of paper and a fine point pen. Paging back through the computer screens, he began to make a few notes that would come to be the foundation of his future life. Though Stuart carried a clear vision of the way he expected his future to unfold, he had no way of knowing that reality would not remotely resemble the picture he had constructed.

By record, Elizabeth Simpson, formerly Elizabeth Wells, was in her mid-fifties, though Stuart would have put the woman in her late twenties if she was a day. She had been born and raised in the small Washington town of Semelar...a town with its own intriguing history. Elizabeth Simpson had vanished some twenty-five years ago on the night of a massive flood and subsequent gas explosion. Police officials of the day did not speculate on what might have befallen Ms. Simpson, though her file declared her missing and thought to be dead. Several others vanished that night, including a moderately successful author named David Stillman, who was also a Semelar native.

At this point, Macevey paused in his note making and massaged the bridge of his nose. Again taking up his pen, he wrote in the margin...possible connection between Elizabeth and David. This he underscored several times before resuming his notes.

Elizabeth Simpson had been married to Daniel Wells, with whom she had birthed a son named Nathaniel, who currently resided in the city of Boston. Simpson divorced Wells after a short marriage and some twenty years ago, Wells was found murdered in his Los Angeles home. Summoning forth the specific case file, Macevey was intrigued to discover that not only did the Wells murder remain unsolved, but police never did discover precisely how the man had been killed. It seemed that the man was partially dissolved in acids commonly found in digestive juices.

"Jesus Christ!" Macevey murmured softly, trying to imagine what it must be like to die such a horrible death. Macevey then continued to summarize the Wells report, oblivious to the stares his behavior was garnering from the other trailer inhabitants. The newly appointed police captain's mind was alive with a host of possibilities. Dan Wells' death was not only gruesome it was also exotic...to say the least. It was impossible to imagine what could have killed him in that manner. The obstacle of impossibility was quickly surmounted once you took into consideration the existence of a creature such as the one he had encountered in the alley. From that point forth, the traditional limits of what could and couldn't be were forever rendered meaningless. If anyone possessed the ability to kill by such an exotic method, Macevey imagined it would be Elizabeth Simpson. He made a corresponding entry in the margin beside his notes on Wells. Macevey had no way of knowing that he was the first person to establish a possible connection between the death of Daniel Wells and his missing former wife.

Beyond this point, the story segued from intriguing into a perplexing and Byzantine labyrinth. The disaster in Semelar also signified the end of a killing spree that had baffled local police in the weeks prior to the flood. The serial murders had attracted national attention for their depravity. Initially, one Lewis Freedman had been charged after he had attempted to kill a Doctor Cynara Simonovic, who was a psychiatrist of some renown. Freedman escaped custody and was never recaptured. Interestingly, Freedman's failure to kill Simonovic was attributed to Elizabeth Simpson's intervention.

Macevey sat back in his chair and ran his index finger over his upper lip. The next entry described how the town Sheriff had adopted Elizabeth's son not long after the woman had disappeared. There was no trace of Elizabeth Simpson for twenty-five years until her name turned up on the register of a Colorado motel the night the manager was brutally slaughtered. Less than ten days later, her name surfaced in a fuel stop explosion that killed over one hundred people. Forty-eight hours later, he encounters a very beautiful, very much alive Elizabeth Simpson in the Seattle abandoned zone, where she is searching for David Stillman, another man who has been listed as missing for twenty five years.

Macevey found himself abuzz with a myriad of questions, but he decided to focus his attention on the most salient pair. Firstly, what had become of Elizabeth Simpson during those missing twenty-five years? Death seemed to follow Elizabeth like a dark shadow. Was this just a coincidence or was she a ruthless murderess?

Stuart doubted that he could find the answer to the first question in the dozens of loosely connected computer records. The quarter century gap was like a lightless void that could only be illuminated by the lady herself. The second question was a matter of some importance. If Simpson was a depraved killer...supernatural or otherwise...Macevey was obligated to take her down somehow.

Macevey frowned and set his pen down on the writing tablet. A sense of unreality washed over him then and he briefly wondered if he was losing his mind. Everything around him felt remote, as though he was experiencing things vicariously. The exigent hues that had colored his obsession with regaining the abandoned zone had faded to gray with a suddenness that was both alarming and dizzying.

A communications officer handed a single piece of paper to Macevey. "Captain, I've just received a situation report from one of the aerial units."

The C.O. paused, clearly perplexed as he glanced down at the carbon. He examined the text as though doubting his own eyes. Macevey waited patiently, inconspicuously turning his notes face down. Even then, he might have suspected that his first cast into the dark pool might well have signaled the end of his police career and the beginning of...something else. Just what that something was or what shape it might assume, even his subconscious could not begin to guess.

The C.O. drew a willowy breath and began to relate the details of the report. "Aerial three was patrolling sector six when a brilliant silver light erupted from between the buildings."

"An explosion?" Macevey prompted, sitting up in interest for the first time. The C.O. shook his head. "No, the pilot reported that it was more like a rising curtain of white fire, but he definitely stated that there was no concussion. This is where the report gets odd and makes me think maybe the pilot should park his whirly bird and consider an extended vacation. He stated that he flew over the fire and came around to take another look, but when he did...the flames were simply gone."

Macevey shook his head and pursed his lips. Distantly, he echoed, "Gone?"

"When the pilot passed over the spot where the flames should have been, he noticed that there were several people down in a dead end service lane, though he had no way of knowing exactly what they were doing. It gets stranger still, when he came back from the original direction, the wall of flames was back."

Macevey absorbed this without comment, though his thoughts were racing at a frenetic pace. The C.O. placed the carbon on the desk and remarked, "The pilot thinks we should send in the guard. Should we do that...and maybe dispatch fire units?"

Macevey glanced up quickly. His thoughts abruptly resolved themselves with an audible snap and what he had to do became clear. " No...we've had enough embarrassment for one day. I'm not going to dispatch the Guard on a shadow chase. They've got their hands full at the waterfront."

The C.O. frowned, but said nothing, while Macevey lapsed back into a contemplative silence. Elizabeth Simpson kept intruding upon his thoughts. ' _She had performed a rather slick fiery illusion. It was not unthinkable that this curtain was also her handiwork_.'

"What was that section location?" he demanded on impulse. Rather bemused by his superior's reaction, the communications officer repeated the information. Macevey consulted the large laminated map and judged that it would be no more than a fifteen minute drive. "I'll investigate this one personally. If a fire unit is required, I'll call it in. Call the aerial unit off."

"But sir..." the C.O. began, clearly flustered by the flagrant breech of protocol. "Won't you want a back-up unit?"

"That won't be necessary," Macevey remarked dismissively. Scooping up the carbon and his writing tablet, he was gone, leaving a baffled C.O. staring after him.

2

For Cassandra Jasic the continuing hours of Elizabeth Simpson's absence grew into something dark and terrifying. She stared out into the rain-soaked streets where vague shadows taunted her from the purple pools of darkness.

' _She's never coming back!'_ That single repetitive thought chased its own tail in her mind until she felt certain that it would drive her mad. Standing on the edge of a possible return to what she once was...to a shiftless, itinerant lifestyle of schizophrenia and murderous frenzy, Cassie felt like a woman poised on the slippery edge of the abyss...her toes scrambling over the ragged cliffs of reason. To lose Elizabeth was to lose her one slim chance of normalcy, though a life with a creature of Elizabeth Simpson's ilk would be anything but normal.

Yet, on this unsettling night where only fools thought of hope as a viable commodity, Cassie mounting agitation could not be attributed to uncertainty alone.

Cassie shivered and hugged herself, though the room was quite warm.

Unable to endure the awful, brooding silence, she march across to where Contayza sat and demanded, "Can't you feel it?"

Contayza regarded the girl quizzically, her dark Gypsy eyes pathways to worlds that Cassie could not hope to understand.

"Can't I feel what?" There was a querulous edge to the other woman's voice that caused Cassie to hesitate. The diminutive beauty's complexity was daunting, but Cassie found herself incapable of containing her disquiet. She struggled to find the words to properly convey just what it was that had plagued her since Elizabeth and Karnalla had made their magical transformations. She could discern a thickening of the air...a coalescing of iniquitous forces...the terrifying convergence of a great and dark purpose...evil fast approaching on dark horses. Even if it should fail in its machinations, it was likely to forever change her world in its wake. This was not the vapid, shallow evil that seemed to permeate everyday life...the stupid, spiteful evil of her mother and father... (though her mother stood within a fraction of a darker class of evil beast). With the falling of night had come the congregation of a far greater evil...one possessed of a rapacious hunger for vengeance. Cassie lacked the faculty to express these things in an eloquent, logical manner, so she simply blurted, "This room, this damned city, it feels like something really terrible is about to happen."

Contayza watched the girl, a speculative light dawning in those dark eyes. It flickered there for several seconds and then was gone, doused by the churning water of her own concerns. "When you've spent as much time as you have in the company you've kept, the entire world begins to seem dark and vile."

Cassie frowned and shook her head vehemently. "No...no, something is about to happen to Elizabeth...and maybe the other woman as well."

A moue of disgust rippled across Contayza's face at the reference to Cynara. "If you were wise, you would leave this place tonight...leave it tonight and never look back. To stay is to risk forfeiting you soul to something you can't begin to understand."

Cassie backed away as if one of her greatest fears had suddenly materialized out of thin air. "Why are you always so dismal...so...so hateful?"

Contayza sprang to her feet like a panther unleashed. Cassie flinched and took two unthinking steps backwards, images of the Dalton Fuel and Feed nightmare leaping to her mind. Contayza's eyes blazed, "How dare you question my anger...my suffering? If you could grasp even a fraction of the misery that Elizabeth and that other monstrous bitch have brought to my life perhaps you would know what it's like to be consumed by hatred!"

Cassie stood in the center of the room, bouncing nervously from foot to foot, understanding that she had reached a crucial juncture where the right words could well erode barriers and efface resentments. "I...I do know what it is to hate...to hate so bad that killing seems like the only way to make it stop."

Contayza regarded the girl dubiously, but something in the girl's expression was frank and ingenuous, informing Tayza that Cassie was being completely truthful. There was a disarming quality about the girl that could penetrate even Contayza's obstinate surliness.

"Perhaps you do know something of rage and anger," Contayza conceded after a protracted silence.

"I also know that Elizabeth helped me when she had every reason in the world not to." Contayza arched an eyebrow at this remark, a gesture that Cassie interpreted to be one of invitation. Haltingly, she began to recount the tale of how she had come to meet Elizabeth Simpson and the things that had passed between the pair in their subsequent travels.

Contayza absorbed the tale in a contemplative silence. Finally, Cassie stopped, suddenly feeling drained and somber, and waited for Contayza to react. For a long moment, it seemed that Gypsy simply would say nothing...that she would retreat behind her stoic mantle of isolation. Eventually, she sighed and crossed over to the window. "Cassie, sometime, people are shackled by the intractable limits of their prejudice. We cling blindly to our perceptions of the world and struggle desperately to turn a blind eye to anything that might prove contrary to our narrow-minded philosophy. Even when she came to see Nathaniel...he is my husband and Elizabeth's son, the logical side of my nature could clearly see that she had changed. Yet, the instinctive, atavistic side of my soul stubbornly refused to believe it, instead seeing Elizabeth as a deceitful, scheming monster. I'm a creature of instinct and thus I chose to see what my prejudiced nature insisted was true. From that point, it was a simple matter to believe that Elizabeth had designs on my child. True, I was seduced, but only because of my natural willingness to accept the worst about Elizabeth."

On the surface, Contayza rendered the judgment about herself dispassionately, but beneath the even timber, Cassie could detect a tremor of intense pain and misery. "As a consequence of my pigheaded refusal to accept that Elizabeth was capable of change, how many people have died? My own husband, my child's father, could well be dead because I was not there to protect him. Still, for the sake of my own sanity, I still cling tenaciously to the view that Elizabeth is somehow to blame." She glanced up at Cassie, tears glistening in those dark, wet eyes. "Do you know what's worst of all?"

Cassie shook her head, feeling totally inadequate to the drama of the moment that she was sharing with a woman who was a virtual stranger...one with whom she was tenuously linked via Elizabeth Simpson.

Contayza glance away, "Perhaps the most insufferable part of the entire ordeal is Elizabeth's damnable refusal to condemn me...her willingness to forgive where I would see only hatred and the maddening need for revenge. When she gazes down on me from her lofty position of moral superiority, I feel vile and dirty...and it makes me hate her even more."

Cassie watched Contayza, perplexed by the impenetrable labyrinth of the Gypsy's mind. Even Elizabeth's kindness was perverted into something suspect and selfish. It was then that Cassie clearly witnessed the poison that had tainted Contayza Prowzi, but she was at a loss to imagine its root cause.

Her smooth brow furrowing, Cassie asked, "Just what is it you think Elizabeth might be?"

Amused, Contayza turned the question back on the girl, "I'd prefer that you answer your own question first."

Cassie considered this for several seconds, cognizant of the fact that her understanding of her benefactress' nature was ambiguous at best. Elizabeth was certainly magical and obviously invulnerable to physical pain, but beyond that, Elizabeth Simpson was shrouded in mystery. At last, Cassie, conceded, "I...I don't really know what she is...a goddess of some sort, though I suppose that's wrong."

Contayza could not help but laugh at the notion that Elizabeth and Cynara could be deified. Finally, when the laughter subsided, she asked, "Do you believe in God, Cassandra?"

Cassie looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the query. "I really don't know. I suppose that I've never given it much thought. Back where I come from, I remember that there were groups of born again Christians...they frightened me. There was this mad, whirling light in their eyes that didn't seem to have a lot to do with God. I've seen such suffering and hopeless misery. The notion of God seemed rather silly."

"I understand that feeling. Nonetheless, he does exist. Elizabeth and especially Cynara...the one you call Karnalla... are testimonies to his existence."

"You're saying that their angels?" Cassie sighed, her voice fraught with a weighty reverence.

Contayza chuckled again, though her laughter was bereft of humor. "Both are demons...demons in the most biblical context of the word."

Cassie shook her head in agitation. "I don't believe you."

"Nonetheless, it's the truth. Cynara was the first, of course. She is a monster of epic proportion. Her evil has haunted my family like a specter for two centuries. Elizabeth came much later, corrupted by Cynara's seduction. Together, they killed everyone I've loved...accept for Nathaniel."

"But I see nothing in Elizabeth's character to suggest that she's evil?" Cassie objected and Contayza nodded. "Nor do I, but you must understand that I've seen these two women at their malefic worst and I am skeptical of this reform."

"I'm going to call the Boston Police again," Contayza suddenly declared and crossed to the telephone. Cassie escaped into the bathroom, intending to shower and restore her hair to its former lustrous red.

Twenty minutes later, she had just emerged from the shower and was in the process of wrapping herself in a terry cloth robe when a soft knock came at the door.

3

She stumbled across the detritus-littered service lane, her body shaking with a flood of conflicting emotions. Through the kaleidoscope lens of her tears, she could see him lying in a pool of dirty water. Elizabeth pawed absently at her tears and came to stand above him. She glanced down at the sprawled form in dirty beggar's clothes and her mind insisted, _'That is not David Stillman.'_

The pale blue eyes...so achingly familiar...found hers and she uttered a strangled sob. His entire face was covered with dried blood, but there could be no denying those eyes. His shoulder length hair was matted and caked with blood and dirt. As she approached him, her nostrils flared at the heavy, pungent odor that she immediately recognized as gasoline and reacted in horror upon seeing that he was drenched in the flammable liquid.

Recognition filtered into his eyes and Stillman gasped weakly, "Elizabeth...is it really you?"

Still sobbing, she nodded vigorously. "It really is me, David. I've come to take you out of this place."

He smiled then, a lustrous smile that had lost none of its power to touch her heart. Then his eyes slipped shut and he went utterly still. Elizabeth's breath hitched in her chest and she was terrified that she had finally found him only to have death steal him from her at their moment of reunion. Then her acute hearing detected the faint, but even rhythm of his heartbeat and she relaxed slightly.

Still, she could not ignore the brooding reek of gasoline and its sickening implications. Spinning about, she confronted Cynara, who stood regarding the pair, her face inscrutable.

"What happened here?" she demanded tightly, her eyes flickering the tell-tale orange of approaching rage.

"It seemed that your visions were more specific than we had first believed," Cynara intoned gravely. "The burning foretold was not a reference to the chaos in this place, but actual death by fire. It seems that these boys have made a sport of burning derelicts to death. Your David Stillman would have been their next victim had I not intervened." Elizabeth shuddered though the orange light in her eyes intensified.

Cynara raised her right hand and pointed out Arturo Richeras, who was struggling frantically with the rusty packing straps that bit cruelly into his forearms. Droplets of red blood spattered the water around his feet. Cynara was grinning now, though the darkness and the gore that slicked her face gave that grin a macabre aspect. "I took the liberty of killing the other four, but I left the instigator for you."

Elizabeth turned slowly to face Richeras, her eyes now blazing a brilliant orange. His body as tense as a coiled spring, the Columbian youth went utterly still under that horrible scrutiny. His eyes bulged and his breathing came in harsh gasps. "Fuck you, puta bitch!" he raged and spittle flew from his lips as though he might be a rabid dog. "You can't touch me...I'm protected. If you try to fuck with me, you and that other whore are gonna wish you were never fuckin' born!"

Elizabeth said nothing. Instead she began to converge upon Richeras, her face impassive and her palms pressed against her thighs. ' _Surely, he would not be abandoned with his work undone_?' He clung to this notion even when Elizabeth reached out and grasped his shoulders, lifting him from the ground as if he was no more substantial than a sack of feathers.

"You don't fucking dare!" he screamed as she drew him closer until their noses were only inches apart. Elizabeth lips split into a reptilian grin that distorted her face into something indescribably ugly. "So you enjoy burning...enjoy the sibilant hiss of hungry flames?"

Richeras uttered a piercing shriek and attempted to pull away, but Simpson's grip was inescapable. Ignoring his futile struggles, Elizabeth again spoke in a voice fraught with bits of razor wire and ground glass. "If your master is about to save you, then it better be quickly because you're about to die."

Richeras raged and struggled, but Elizabeth held him fast. Gradually, Turo became cognizant of a warmth building deep in the pit so his guts. It radiated out from his core, quickly spreading to his extremities until his feet and hands felt as though they were encased in a pleasingly warm liquid.

"What...what are you doing," Richeras demanded, but Simpson offered no explanation. Her beautiful face was enclosed behind a mask of concentration. Mere seconds later, the first blister erupted on the back of his hand. Turo's eyes fell upon the blister and he offered a high, shrewish scream which was punctuated by a swelling agony that engulf the youth as his internal organs began to boil. Arturo attempted to scream, but a glut of blood, black and boiling, burst from his lips like a high pressure jet. The olive skin on his contorted face began to blister, deepening to a hectic red and then a rotting purple as fat cells exploded with sickening liquid pops. Tendrils of smoke, acrid and cloying, rose from the sweaty mass of the Columbian's hair.

Cynara watched dispassionately as Elizabeth dispensed her justice to the youth. Simpson's willingness to be brutal would serve her well in the final battle that was soon to come.

Now Richeras's body had assumed a grotesque resemblance to a human egg plant. Still, Simpson steadfastly refused to surrender her grip and with a sudden stellar burst, the youth's body erupted into flames that quickly engulfed Arturo and his tormentor. Saravic shielded her eyes against the intense glare and instinctively back away.

There followed an argent flare that sent tracers of flame shooting up towards the heavens. The ball of flame abruptly split into two and then vanished. A blackened husk that had once been Arturo Richeras now smoldered at Elizabeth's feet. She stared down at it for a long moment while the fury bled away from her eyes. At last, she drew a quavering breath and turned away from the detritus.

She glanced towards Cynara, who nodded her tacit approval, and then towards David Stillman, who was now resting on one elbow and regarding her closely. His expression was closed and inscrutable, but Elizabeth could sense the condemnation lurking beneath the surface and her face colored with shame.

She crossed over to where he lay and David flinched back. Elizabeth caught the reaction and it lanced her heart. "David, I...I had to. It was certainly what he deserved."

David nodded grimly and averted his eyes. Indeed, Richeras' death was the very epitome of poetic justice, but Stillman wondered how much of Elizabeth's response was motivated by a visceral need to dispense death for the sheer pleasure of the act. Both mortal and immortal realized that it might be years before that obstacle of uncertainty could be overcome.

Then Elizabeth was to him, helping him gingerly to his feet, "Let me help you, please David...let me do this much," she murmured pleadingly. "Is the pain bad?"

"Not really...but I'm very weak...I've lost a lot of blood, I think." As if in affirmation of this, his legs wobbled precariously and Elizabeth quickly scooped him into her powerful arms. "Don't try to walk...I'll carry you."

David wanted to object, despite the ease with which she carried him and the comforting warmth of her embrace. The tenderness of that embrace and the ease with which it roused old specters of memories terrified David and so he wanted to demand that she set him down and let him be. Instead, he surrendered to the gentle warmth of her body and deliberately gave himself over to the darkness for awhile. Elizabeth glanced down at Stillman, frightened by his pallor that was so pronounced against the wash of drying blood that covered most of his face.

Cynara moved to join Elizabeth, hating the soft, deferential aspect of Simpson's character that emerged whenever Stillman assumed the focus of her attention. "We have to get out of here, Elizabeth. My instincts are braying like a klaxon."

Simpson nodded absently barely able to drag her attention away from David's slack countenance. His reaction to her sudden appearance had been one of reticence. She had expected anger or delight, but not the cold reserve that spoke of an emotional bridge permanently burned. "He's been badly beaten, Cynara. I've got to take him somewhere and help him heal...even if I have to carry him on foot."

Saravic considered her friend closely. Despite Elizabeth's outward expression of composure, Cynara discerned that Elizabeth was wavering on the edge of emotional collapse. "Elizabeth, what you did to that murderous little prick was well warranted. If anything, he escaped lightly. Who is to say how many times he's succeeded in doing what he clearly intended to do to your David Stillman? Do not bludgeon yourself with misplaced guilt."

Elizabeth shook her head and replied softly, "There is no nobility in murder, Cynara."

Cynara sighed in exasperation. "Look, I'd love to debate the philosophical ramifications of vengeance and punishment with you, but my instinct for self-preservation tells me to make ourselves scarce."

Simpson observed her friend's rare moment of anxiety and arched an eyebrow questioningly. "I take it that you suspect something is about to happen."

Cynara nodded, her dark eyes narrowing. "My mind keeps focusing on something the murderous little bastard said just before you killed him. "I'm protected." That phrase keeps ringing in my head and casting a sinister light on the ugly confrontation."'

"Surely, he meant that he was protected by other gang members?" Elizabeth offered, anxious to be gone.

"That would be the most logical assumption, but it might be dangerous to be complacent. I'm still convinced that everything that's happened so far has been carefully scripted. By the time he was about to die, even a brainless slime like him must have realized that he was not dealing with mortal women. Somewhere in his Neanderthal brain, he must have realized that an army of grease balls would have met with no more success, yet he was vehement that we would meet with swift retaliation if we interfered."

Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "Either way, we have to get out of the zone as quickly as possible. The roving patrols may make that difficult." She swept her gaze over Saravic who was covered in dried blood and dressed only in tattered slacks and a bra. "Our appearance is going to do little to help our cause."

Cynara offered a desultory apology, "Goes with the work, I'm afraid. There was a parked car somewhere back along the alley. The vehicle might help and we might even be lucky enough to find a sweater or jacket."

Elizabeth quickly discerned problems with vehicle movement under controlled traffic conditions, but said nothing, reasoning that any action was better than this frustrating inactivity. "All right, lead the way."

Saravic did and Elizabeth followed, both passing through the illusory curtain of argent flame that quickly vanished once its conjuror passed through, bringing darkness down upon the stage where the Pyronators final deadly drama had played out.

4

When Stuart Macevey turned his unmarked cruiser into the maze of services lanes that had once criss-crossed the largest industrial complex in Seattle, he was suddenly beset by the unsettling and irrational notion that he had entered another dimension. Here, the rules of the tangible world would hold no sway and virtually anything was possible.

He pulled to the crumbling curb and unfolded a detailed grid map and quickly traced a course that would take him to the spot where the air patrol had spotted the anomaly. When he had committed the route to memory, Stu returned the map to the glove compartment. Then, he removed his service revolver from its holster and placed it on the seat next to him. Setting his headlights to their lowest level of illumination, he attempted to maneuver quickly through the trash-strewn alleys that had once been the artery system for a then healthy American city.

The same question kept clamoring for his attention as he drove, straining and squinting in the ineffective light, and when he could ignore it no further Stu turned his thoughts squarely to providing a plausible answer.

' _Just what the hell are you hoping to achieve with this midnight foray into the Twilight Zone, Stu?_ ' his mental keeper demanded and Macevey realized that his answer would be complex and not entirely rational. He glanced down at his gun and grimaced, understanding that it was a psychological comfort at best. Elizabeth Simpson was impervious to gun fire because (or so Stu believed) Elizabeth Simpson was no more human than the stone of the buildings that lined this miserable alley. The notion that he could confront her and force her to answer his questions was so much self-serving bullshit and totally ludicrous for good measure.

It occurred to him that this excursion might be extremely dangerous, but he found the prospect of menace lacked the adequate power to deter him. Despite whatever danger seeking out this exotic creature might entail, Stu Macevey knew that he had no alternative but to proceed. His reasons for doing so were not entirely rooted in curiosity (though his curiosity was maddeningly intense), but also because he suspected that he was poised on the edge of epiphany. Elizabeth Simpson could provide him with insight into the true and unadorned nature of the world...not the sterile, blighted sprawl of spiritless glass and rigid reality as dictated by sociology and science. That world was gray and in all probability in the final stages of dying.

Elizabeth Simpson was a symbol of a world of primal hues, where there were virtually no limits save for the limits of the imagination. Stuart Macevey, a man whose entire life had been governed by the unflinching gospel of the law and the ugly realities of the twenty-first century, found himself thoroughly beguiled by the prospect of the truer reality that Elizabeth Simpson represented.

Yet, it was more than just possible access to an esoteric world of wonders that had inspired Macevey to abandon his leadership of the assault and come out in search of the mysterious Elizabeth Simpson. For reasons too complex for him to fully grasp, it was imperative that Macevey divine the essence of this woman's nature...be it pure or ignoble. If such entities did exist, and now he had irrefutable proof that they did, he had to know if they were friendly or belligerent. Even as he contemplated these things, he could not shake the sensation that this whole episode was a very lucid dream...that even now, he was dozing at his desk in the C and C trailer.

Macevey swung the cruiser down a short service lane and then left into a wider alley that ran then entire length of the factory complex. If his sense of direction and ability to read a map proved reliable, it would only be about three hundred yards along this alley to the point where the anomaly was spotted.

Glancing up towards the sky, he could see no hint of this blinding argent glow that had so astounded the chopper jockey. The heavens were well-concealed behind a low, lumbering bank of thunderheads and so the only light was the sickly yellow glow of his muted headlights.

He was nearly on top of the car before he actually saw it, jamming on the brakes and uttering a foul epithet as his service revolver flew from the seat. He was jerked back into his seat and sat staring at the vehicle and waited for his heart to settle into its normal rhythm. He brushed a slightly trembling hand across his brow and it came away slick with a cold, oily layer of perspiration.

There was something about the car, with its black predatorily silhouette and the way it was parked directly in the center of the alley, that raised a keen note of alarm with Macevey's well-honed instincts. Reaching beneath the dash, Macevey withdrew a small flashlight and directed its beam at the vehicle. He noted immediately that the trunk was slightly open as was one of the rear passenger doors, leading Macevey to conclude that the occupants had abandoned ship in a hurry. Running the pale yellow beam over the length of the vehicle, he discovered that two of the tires were flat. The car was definitely functional and so it followed that the occupants had left the vehicle in flight...or in pursuit. Whatever had inspired their suddenly exit had probably occurred not long ago and Stuart deduced that it was somehow related to the anomaly that had been called in by the chopper pilot.

Macevey drew a deep breath. Suddenly he found himself in a situation that he was not prepared for. Despite the National Guard and State Militia's onslaught, there were still isolated pockets that had not been brought to heel. The initial assault strategy had called for a rapid deployment along the major arteries. It was feared that major casualties would be incurred if the Guard decided to comb the maze of derelict buildings such as this industrial complex.

Stuart glanced over at his service revolver, wondering if brevity would be the better part of valor in this particular situation. Incredibly, before his customary good sense could assert itself, Macevey snatched up the revolver and pushed out into the rainy darkness. He could discern no lurking presence in the area and found the isolation unnerving.

Cautiously, he approached the car in the way one might attempt to circumvent a sleeping dog. The rain began to fall in earnest now and Macevey squinted as it pelted his face, not wanting to be distracted.

As he approached the open trunk, it reminded him of a gaping maw.

"Jesus, cut the shit, Man!" he derided himself not caring for the quavering quality of his own voice. Beneath the steady fall of rain, he experienced the electric sensation of crystalline insight...one that exploded upon his synapses like a burst of white phosphorus. Something of great and lasting consequence was about to transpire tonight...something that went far beyond the rectifying of a social injustice.

The bolt of revelation shook his body with the efficacy of a compact electric current. He abruptly stood upright, his eyes widening until it seemed virtually certain that they would simply fall from their sockets. Macevey could divine nothing of the form of this momentous and imminent event, but he was inexplicably certain that it would shake the very foundations of this base and dirty city, shattering long-held delusions of its true nature and governing realities.

This certitude exploded in his consciousness like a detonating shell. In his forty-two years, he had experienced nothing comparable...and incorrectly surmised that he never would again. When the sensation passed, Macevey's misgivings had evaporated. Some great and unknowable design of fate had imposed him in Elizabeth Simpson's path for some obscure purpose that he could not fathom. She was a gateway to a new perception and he should falter or turn away now, it was unlikely that he would ever have another opportunity to travel to those dark lands.

Holding his revolver high, he slowly approached the vehicle and directed his flashlight beam into the darkness of the trunk. What he saw there caused him to whistle and utter a soft curse. The trunk's content confirmed his initial suspicion...the car's owners were gang members who had managed to elude the sweeping Guard and police net. Their array of weaponry was both amazing and horrifying, ranging from fully automatic weapons to hand held RPGs. Incredibly, there was even a pair of deadly laser sticks...the rumored high-tech weapons that were only available to the elite black ops units of the American military. Tucking the flashlight under his arm, Stuart reached into the trunk and withdrew a small metal cylinder that was adorned with a series of dormant lights. Macevey examined the device for several moments...correctly guessing that it was some manner of remote explosive.

The people who possessed this cache of dirty tricks were prepared to do some serious damage. He wondered how many similar caches of contraband weaponry were stored throughout the abandoned zone. The thought was as depressing as it was terrifying.

"This is one group of savages who will never have the opportunity to use their dirty toys, Captain," came a melodic voice from behind him. Startled, Stuart wheeled around, nearly fumbling the explosive device as he did. Gasping, he gentling placed the device in the trunk and came around to the side of the car. Directing the beam toward the speaker, he came face to face Elizabeth Simpson. She was standing ten feet in front of the vehicle, cradling an apparently unconscious form in her arms as effortlessly as if she was holding a feather pillow.

"I take it you found your David Stillman?" Macevey inquired.

Elizabeth nodded, her ethereal blue eyes clouded with pain and affection in equal measures. "Unfortunately, not before the occupants of that particular car found him first. He's been badly hurt and I've got to take him to a place where I can minister to his wounds."

"And the people who hurt him?"

A hard grin stretched over her face, so incongruent with her beauty that Macevey actually flinched. That grin spoke volumes of what this woman might be capable of if enraged. When she spoke, her voice was fraught with barely contained fury. "This was the group that's been incinerating derelicts. I can assure you that they've committed their final atrocity."

Her gaze shifted to his revolver, which was trained directly upon her. "I suppose it would be fair to say that your appearance is no coincidence."

Macevey plunged directly into the crux of the business. "After you left me in the alley, I took the time to do a background check on you, Ms. Simpson. What I discovered was extraordinary to say the least. You are a fascinating individual, Ms. Simpson."

Simpson made no immediate comment. Instead, she stood regarding him with those lovely, inscrutable blue eyes. Something in her posture conjured images of a preying cat, accentuating the delicacy of his situation. "I'm sure what you've discovered was most interesting, Captain Macevey," she sighed after a moment "but I have no time for a sociable chat about my past."

"I'm afraid that you're going to have to make the time, Ms. Simpson," Macevey began. He perceived the attack a fraction of a second before his service revolver was snapped from his hand. Before he could react, Stuart found himself being hoisted from his feet and thrown unceremoniously over the hood of the car.

"Pointing a gun at a lady is simply unacceptable," another decidedly feminine voice snarled. Incredibly powerful hands reached for him in the darkness and dragged him roughly to his feet. Despite being dazed by the impact of the blow, his mind was suffused by one simple thought, "My God, there are two of them."

"Cynara, that's enough!" Elizabeth commanded firmly. "Let him be." The woman holding Macevey grunted in disgust and grudgingly allowed him to fall to the wet, crumbling asphalt. Cynara retreated a step, prepared to strike again if Macevey showed any sign of belligerence.

"Let him have his gun," Elizabeth insisted. The two women exchanged nuanced glances and finally Cynara handed the service revolver to the fallen policeman. Stuart accepted the gun warily and wisely slid it into his holster before climbing to his feet. To allow Macevey a sense of equal footing, Elizabeth reproduced her trick of creating light out of thin air. The entire lane filled with a soft blue light. Elizabeth was regarding him somberly, her face alive with anxiety. He shifted is gaze to the other woman and recognition filtered in despite the gore-slicked face. Macevey's eyes widened in incredulity.

"Karnalla Mansley?" Macevey exclaimed. "Good God, you aren't really Karnalla Mansley?"

A sardonic grin twisted Cynara's sensuous lips. She executed a graceful pirouette and bowed. "One and the same."

Macevey shook his head in disbelief. With every passing second this night grew ever stranger.

"Captain Macevey," Elizabeth interrupted, breaking his reverie. "If you have questions, ask them, but please be brief. David is badly hurt and it would be better for everyone if I made myself scarce."

Macevey nodded, casting a quick glance at Karnalla Mansley. She was regarding him with an expression that was never likely to grace the cover of any of the major fashion magazines. "As I was saying...researching you background produced some rather interesting questions. I'm a curious person by nature and knew I that I simply couldn't let them go."

"Ask your questions, Captain Macevey," Elizabeth reiterated softly, suspecting that she knew which direction this question would take.

"I want to know what really happened in Semelar twenty-five years ago."

Elizabeth's countenance did not change a whit. "There was a series of killings. The police arrested a man they thought to be the killer, but he managed to escape custody. As far as I'm aware, he was never recaptured. There followed a flood and natural gas explosion that destroyed a good portion of the town. Very possibly the killer died that night as the killings ceased with the flood and subsequent explosion."

"You don't really believe that, do you Ms. Simpson," Macevey inquired sharply. Elizabeth sighed. "I can tell you that I had no hand in the murders, Stuart. I can further tell you that the murderer is dead...dead and gone and I see little point in stirring up the past by revealing the killer's name."

"And yet, you disappeared that night...as did Mr. Stillman," Macevey pressed urgently.

Electing not to be evasive, Elizabeth divulged as much of the truth as she deemed prudent. As she spoke, she could sense Cynara's reproachful glare on her face. Still, Elizabeth went on speaking. "There was a time...the years that I lived in Semelar...when I was every bit as mortal as you are now. I was just an ordinary person then."

She paused then, a wistful expression stealing over her lovely features. Macevey watching her closely, gleaning something of what it must be like to be a creature such as her. Perhaps she had gained phenomenal power, but that longing expression spoke eloquently of all that she had lost. He wondered if she realized that there were never a set of circumstances under which she would have been classified as ordinary. With a tremendous exertion of will, she pushed the recollection of her old life from her thoughts. "On the final night of the disaster in Semelar something happened that transmogrified me into what I am today. The particulars of the process aren't important, but I've become what can best be described as immortal."

Macevey considered this for several seconds and the remarked, "You left Semelar and never returned. The records state that you left a son, Nathaniel, behind. The courts eventually awarded custody of her son to the town Sheriff...one Avery Mathis. At the time, the boy was three years old."

Elizabeth started to respond, but abruptly her faces crumpled and hot tears of shame and regret sprang from her eyes and began to pour over her cheeks. Macevey stopped, alarmed by the intensity of her reaction, though her remorse did confirm her essential humanity.

Cynara stepped closer to her friend, her menacing gaze settling firmly on Macevey. "I think you've asked all of the questions she wants to answer."

"It's okay," Elizabeth mumbled weakly. She shifted her pain-fraught gaze to Macevey. "Your records are correct. I abandoned Nathaniel. It's an action that I've never stopped paying for and never probably will...even if I have an eternity to do so."

"Is...is Nathaniel like you?"

"So much better," she mused. "So much sweeter, but that's not really what you want to know. Nath is a mortal man with no special abilities."

Macevey absorbed this thoughtfully, his mind alive with a myriad of questions regarding the process that had brought Elizabeth Simpson to her present state. As badly as he wanted to ask these questions, he found that he could not, judging that Elizabeth's emotional stability was too precarious to be prodded further. Macevey could not deny that he was also acutely aware of Karnalla Mansley's imposing presence hovering nearby. He did not fully grasp the dynamics of their relationship, but Stuart correctly surmised that Mansley regarded herself as Elizabeth's guardian. He further guessed that it was a role she took quite seriously.

"Ms. Simpson...I have one last question...did you kill your husband?"

Elizabeth frowned and fell silent. For along moment, Macevey was certain that she would refuse to answer. Then she stepped forward, the unconscious David Stillman cradled in her arms as if he was weightless. "I did not kill Daniel Wells, though I'm not surprised that someone did because he was a despicable little man."

Elizabeth flicked her glance towards Cynara, who merely nodded. "If there's nothing more, I'd like to go now."

Macevey nodded, "Ms. Simpson, it's going to be difficult to walk out of her without being stopped...especially in your present condition."

Elizabeth glanced at the police captain anxiously, her exquisite blue eyes offering a silent plea. Macevey pondered the problem and then, raising his hand for indulgence, walked back to his cruiser and radioed dispatch, while Elizabeth watched him intently. When the dispatcher responded, Macevey issued the following instructions. "A black Fury, carrying three people, will be passing along red route one in the next ten minutes. This vehicle is to be allowed to pass out of the abandon zone unobstructed."

There was a momentary hesitation and Macevey could already hear the dispatcher's mind whirling. Already, his erratic behavior was the subject of much discussion throughout the force. Undoubtedly, there would be questions raised regarding this latest breech of protocol, but Macevey found that he was indifferent to the prospect. Stuart found his sudden disregard for procedure surprisingly refreshing. Turning back to Elizabeth with a slight grin, he announced that she would be able to leave the zone unobstructed.

"Thank you, Captain," she intoned softly. Macevey stood aside and watched as she laid David Stillman gently across the back seat. With a twinge of regret, he moved around to the trunk and began to transfer the weaponry to his cruiser. He was in the process of transferring the last of these when a powerful hand clutched his shoulder. He glanced up to find himself staring into the ineffably beautiful eyes of Karnalla Mansley.

"A word of advice, Captain," she growled sardonically. "You've discovered my secret. Secrets are powerful, intimate things...dangerous things. They bind the knowers together in a sacred trust. You may know that I vanished from the public eye recently, but I intend to re-emerge...more flamboyant than ever. Now, you may be inclined to share what you've discovered tonight with others...it may even become very lucrative to do so, but should a tabloid ever suggest that there might be a supernatural aspect to my beauty, I'll know who implanted that idea in their minds and I'll come for you. If you find yourself unimpressed by the prospect, I suggest that you pay careful attention to the bodies you'll find in the alley ahead. Try to imagine what it must have been like to die that way. I trust I've made myself clear, Captain Macevey?"

"Perfectly and I'm not in the exposé business," Stuart replied evenly. "Quite frankly, you scared the shit out of me...I doubt I'll need further convincing."

Cynara uttered a throaty laugh and clapped the captain on the shoulder. "A prudent choice, Macevey...a prudent choice."

She strode back to the car and climbed into the driver's seat while Macevey walked around to the passenger side and looked in on Elizabeth Simpson. She turned her face towards him. Somehow, her anxiety had lent the angelic beauty an aspect of divinity. She reached forward and squeezed his hand. "Again, thank you, Stuart."

He shook his head dismissively, but remained silent. Her incisive gaze remained on him for several moments. "Stuart, you are peering along a dark road that it would be best that you not follow. Captain Macevey, there is very little happiness on the night side of the world. You may gain knowledge, but it will be knowledge that I suspect you will quickly come to regret having obtained. There is no remuneration in knowing the realities of my world...only misery and madness. You're a good man, Stuart Macevey. Stay in the world of light and task yourself with rectifying its injustices."

With this, Cynara pulled away. Macevey stood there a long time after it had vanished from sight, thinking that she had touched his life for the final time. One this count, he would be proven wrong.

5

The street was deserted and the only sounds to disturb the brooding silence were the metronomic patter of the falling rain and the almost violent slap of the wipers as they banished the rain. Jurgen Gerchnau heard none of this, his every sense instead focused upon the building on the opposite side of the street. Palms up, his large hands rested lightly on his knees and his eyelids fluttered closed as he began the mental preparations that Sambata had taught him when beginning the process of projecting his spirit.

Earlier, he had succeeded in locating Elizabeth on the plain of consciousness. As he correctly surmised, her aura was of such brilliant magnitude that she could easily be tracked. There had been one strange and disquieting moment, when Jurgen had discovered that there was a second equally intense aura hovering next to Simpson's. Jurgen had spent several anxious moments pondering the implications of this second aura, wondering if he should attempt to unlock its mystery before making his attempt on Simpson. Finally, he elected not to delay his attempt as some atavistic instinct informed him that this moment was a crucial opportunity that should not be foresaken.

Following these brilliant coronas, Jurgen had tracked them to this place. Yet, just as he had arrived at the hotel, the aura's simply vanished. The perplexed German had sat in front of the hotel, trying to grasp what might have happened and how he should react to it. It was then that he realized that two other auras were located in the same hotel room, though these were far less brilliant than his quarry's.

Now Jurgen drifted out of his body and upward, passing effortlessly through the concrete and steel as though these obstructions were no more substantial than air. Patiently, he drifted from room to room until at last he located what he'd been hoping to find...residual psychic emanations or free floating splotches of color. The colors were distinctive and confirmed Jurgen's original impression that there had been one, not two distinct and separate entities present until moments ago.

There were two occupants in the room...a teenage girl and the woman who Gerchnau recognized as Contayza Prowzi. He recalled that it had been an obsession with this particular Gypsy whore that had driven Yuro Petru into madness and death. He recalled quite vividly just how she had disposed of the officious little bureaucrat in their final confrontation in the mountains. Gerchnau understood that her telekinetic powers were enormous and that he would have to subdue her quickly and efficiently. To come so close to his objective only to be killed by a mortal was a fate that he would strive diligently to avoid.

Recording the layout details of the suite, Jurgen quickly returned to the confines of his own physical body. Checking his machine pistol and storing another clip in his jacket pocket, Jurgen pushed out into the rainy night. His usual glacial calm descended upon him and he crossed the street, quickly mounting the steps to the hotel lobby, knowing that he was entering a situation unlike anything he'd encountered in his many years as a soldier and mercenary. A meticulous man by nature, Jurgen felt confident that he had planned for every contingency.

Gerchnau knew that it was better to bait a trap in a controlled location than to seek out prey on a search and destroy basis. Too many variables were introduced into an equation when one sought out the enemy at random. This was especially true when that opponent possessed the skills of an Elizabeth Simpson. Rather than seek Simpson out, Gerchnau would use the woman and girl as an inducement to lure the demon to a place of his choosing.

As he entered the hotel, Jurgen took a moment to assess the security measures that the hotel would undoubtedly have in place. Jurgen had long ago learned that the weak link in any security system was human element. That conclusion was affirmed once again in this hotel. Though there were cameras everywhere throughout the lobby area, the security guard was reading a magazine with the bored expression of a man whose job is sheer drudgery.

Gerchnau crossed the lobby, a broad smile surfacing on his angular face. The desk clerk glanced up, sporting an identical expression to the one worn by the security guard.

That expression congealed into one of dawning horror a half second before Gerchnau pulled the trigger. There followed a muffled thud as the clerk collapsed to the carpeted floor behind the desk. His pistol's silencer was virtually perfect and the security guard glanced from the stranger to the desk clerk with an expression of dumb confusion branded on his face. Jurgen pulled that trigger three times, vaporizing that expression in a crimson spray. The guard slumped over his console with blood pooling around him in a fan.

Jurgen walked around the desk and fired three more shots into the security computer, before throwing it to the floor. This done, he headed for the stairs.

6

Contayza abruptly sprang from her chair and crossed to the window, peering into the rainy gloom of the Seattle night. In the bathroom, he could hear the water shut off as Cassandra stepped from the shower. She found that she liked the girl, who might be a kindred spirit in some way, but her only present concern was Nathaniel and what might have befallen him.

She glanced over at the bedside clock. It's hovering, luminous display indicating that it was 2:45 a.m. She made the immediate decision that she would wait until dawn for Elizabeth to return. Should she fail to do so, Contayza would arrange to be on the next available flight heading east. It would be easier to trace Nathaniel from that end and she would be grateful to free herself from the complexities that Elizabeth's presence evoked.

At once, Contayza stiffened as her entire body was suffused by a deep chill. Wide-eyed, she glanced around the room, uncertain what had aroused such disquiet. After a few seconds, the sensation passed and Contayza drew a tremulous breath. Her limbs felt leaden and her head was thick with weariness. Despite her anxiety, she forced herself to lie down on the unfamiliar double bed for the sake of her unborn daughter. The prospect of the girl's birth seemed to be the only reason for optimism in her otherwise grim and uncertain future.

She was still indulging these wistful thoughts about her child when a rap came upon the door.

Her heart skidded painfully in her chest and her blood thundered concussively in her skull. This knock would be the harbinger of nothing good. Just then Cassie, a towel rapped around her torso and another around her hair, emerged from the bathroom and glanced at Contayza questioningly. Prowzi raised her right index finger to her lips and slipped off the bed. Venturing nearer to the door, she gestured for Cassie to retreat into the bathroom.

The rapping came again, soft but nonetheless insistent. It was the kind of rap one might expect when passing an urgent message in a hotel in the dead of night. Still, the telephone was the preferable method of reaching a guest inconspicuously. Turning back to Jasic, she mouthed the words, "call the front desk."

This, Cassie did, but after a few seconds she shrugged and whispered, "No answer."

Contayza's instincts for trouble had been forged to the razor's edge of keenness while fighting the communist government in Romania and now they informed her that something was drastically wrong...whatever was on the other side of this door was not friendly.

The rap came a third time, this time accompanied by a soft, yet audible whisper, "Ms. Simpson, I have information concerning your husband, Nathaniel."

With a mere mention of Nath's name went all ability to render a sound judgment on what the situation might demand. Contayza uttered a shrill cry and rushed to the door with no thought to the possible consequences. Eyes blazing, she threw open the door and was immediately struck by a blow between the eyes. The report of flesh on flesh was incredibly loud. Contayza folded to the floor in an unconscious sprawl, while her assailant gracefully stepped over her and closed the door behind her.

Cassie backed against the wall, her gazing shifting frantically from the fallen Contayza to the large, imposing man with the arctic blue eyes. His gun was trained directly upon her and his lips were twisted in an ugly, sardonic grin. "It would seem that we have a bit of a situation here. Isn't it so, young miss?"

He spoke with a precise, clipped accent that she correctly guessed was either German or Austrian. Without taking his eyes from Jasic, he reached down and grasped Contayza by the wrist, savagely pulling her limp body upright and throwing her onto the bed.

"You bastard, can't you see she's pregnant?" an appalled Cassie hissed and began to move toward the bed. Gerchnau raised the gun and fired a single shot that missed the girl's head by no more than an inch. Cassie stopped abruptly, wide-eyed with the realization that this man would not hesitate to kill her.

"Can't you see that I don't particularly give a shit?" Gerchnau intoned mildly. "If you want to live, it's important that you grasp the salient facts of your present situation. I require one hostage, but two is preferable providing you don't create problems. If I'm forced to kill one, I can assure you that it will not be this Gypsy whore. She is Elizabeth's blood and thus will gain the most leverage in what is to pass between us. You, on the other hand, are expendable. I trust that I've made myself clear?

If Gerchnau had expected the girl to be cowered or quake with fear at the prospect, he was disappointed. She regarded the large German with gray eyes that never flinched. Something in those eyes spoke of a person who would not be opposed to spilling blood if that was what the situation demanded. This Simpson had surrounded herself with a cadre of extraordinary women. Handling these tigresses would require that Jurgen exercise extra caution if was to have any hope of completing his sanction.

Jurgen dictated his message for Elizabeth and Cassie repeated it slowly and evenly. Gerchnau nodded his approval and Cassie repeated his message a second time...this time recording her effort for the immortal.

Now, place the recorder on the night table next to the bed," he commanded and Jasic complied. Jasic then produced a set of handcuffs and threw them to the girl. "Place them on her wrists."

Again, Cassandra complied. As she bound Contayza's wrists, she spoke to the German in a normal conversational tone that someone would use when discussing simple trivialities. "She'll kill you...I hope you know that. I've seen her kill and it's a frightening thing."

Gerchnau smiled though the expression never touched his arctic eyes. "You're going to be treated to quite the spectacle, little girl. It's not everyday that one gets to witness the death of a demon, but you'll have that privilege. Now, move around to the opposite side of the bed."

When Cassie had moved to the opposite side of the bed, Jurgen came forward and pulled the unconscious Contayza upright. "We're going to leave. You are going to do precisely what I tell you. Any deviation and I'll shoot you on the spot."

The German jerked the gun towards the door and Cassie stumbled in that direction. Jurgen hauled Contayza towards the hallway, pausing to spare the vacant room one final glance. The small recorder sat perched against the bed side lamp, waiting with muted patience to deliver its grim invitation.

Satisfied that everything was proceeding as planned, Gerchnau smiled and closed the door behind him.

Chapter Twenty Nine

1

As Macevey had promised, Elizabeth and the others were allowed to pass out of the abandoned zone unobstructed. They were even provided with a police escort to insure that they would pass through the barricades safely.

Elizabeth requested that Cynara drive the pair to a hotel other than the one where Cassie and Contayza awaited. Saravic agreed, though she could feel the hot sparks of jealousy begin to flicker deep in the lightless recesses of the creature she had once been. "Elizabeth, I don't have to remind you that it isn't safe to remain in this city for a moment longer than necessary. My instincts tell me that something will happen in the abandoned zone. Admittedly, nothing has this far, but I still can't escape the feeling that you're being stalked."

Elizabeth nodded, her gaze fixed firmly on David's slack face. "You're point is taken, Cynara, but there are things that he and I must discuss. I owe him an explanation for everything that has happened since Semelar. What's more, I want to offer to make amends for the damage I've inflicted upon him...or at least see if he will allow me the opportunity to do so."

Cynara bit back her exasperation. Elizabeth, for all of her formidable strength, was strangely susceptible to this inconsequential little man and she could not be reached by reason or prudence. "What would you have me do?"

"Return to the hotel and tell Contayza and Cassie that I've found David and that they should be ready to leave for Boston come dawn."

"I'll arrange for five plane tickets on the first available flight."

"Five?" Elizabeth echoed, surprised by the implications of that number. "Cynara, have you considered the risks involved? If I'm marked then you're in danger by proximity alone. If your former masters discover that you're alive and helping me, they turn their sights squarely upon you. Even if that's not the case, you have to see the inherent dangers of associating with me. If it's really your intention to live as Karnalla Mansley and take up the thread of her life, you can't afford to be associated with the scandalous legend of Elizabeth Simpson. Stuart Macevey is an honorable, scrupulous man, but the next person to raise the same questions about those with whom you choose to keep company might not be so scrupulous or honorable."

Cynara continued to drive in silence for several moments and when she finally did respond, each word was intentionally drawn out and deliberate. "I'm coming to Boston with you and argument is futile. If you're going to prevent me from coming, you're going to have to do so physically. Despite the changes we've both undergone, I doubt you're willing to do that."

Simpson glanced to the rear view mirror where Cynara's dark eyes offered their direct challenge. Finally, Elizabeth sighed and remarked, "I see that the Saravic intractability hasn't vanished in the past five years."

"I'm just as stubborn a bitch as I always was," Cynara offered seriously, prompting a spate of genuinely affectionate laughter from Elizabeth.

"The times that we've shared," Elizabeth murmured distantly. "Our relationship could be the most unique in history. Between us there has passed the gamut of every known human emotion. Come to Boston if you wish, Cynara, but don't do so out of any sense of obligation. I can't speak of your other actions, but you're absolved of any crimes you've committed against me."

Cynara flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror and then quickly back to the dreary night beyond her windshield. "I'm not coming out of any sense of obligation. I'm coming with you because you are my only real connection with this world and I simply can't afford to lose you. My motivations for being here are far more selfish than you suspect."

Simpson accepted this with a tacit nod and the pair did not exchange another word until they reached a hotel not far from the one into which they had registered the previous afternoon. Cynara pulled the car to the curb and Elizabeth quickly hopped out and pulled David into her arms, grateful that the streets were deserted in the depth of the hostile September night.

"Please make the arrangements for Boston. We'll be along just after dawn," Elizabeth instructed. Cynara nodded and was about to pull away, when Elizabeth bent forward and spoke in a voice that was at once pleading and commanding. "Cynara, please don't antagonize Contayza. I know she can be a volatile, difficult woman at times, but don't aggravate an already difficult situation by goading her."

Cynara feigned righteous indignation and then laughed. "Don't worry, I'll be kind to the spoiled brat. Don't you forget to be easy on your David Stillman."

Cynara offered Elizabeth a lewd wink and Elizabeth shook her head in exasperation. "You're incorrigible!"

"Hopelessly!" Cynara exclaimed brightly and drove off. Elizabeth continued to stare after her for several moments, not knowing that they had just shared their final moment of levity.

When the car had vanished, Elizabeth turned her attention to the hotel, the façade of which was dreary and uninviting in the brooding darkness. Only a few lights remained on at this late hour and Elizabeth knew that she could not risk entry into an unoccupied room. Closing her eyes, she projected her spirit forth, much as Jurgen Gerchnau had done less than a mile away and not thirty minutes before. Finally locating an unoccupied room not far from the top floor, she quickly returned to her physical body. She had done this perhaps a thousand times, but the odd sensation of discorporation still filled her with an atavistic wonder.

Scanning the street one final time and still finding it conveniently deserted, she closed her eyes and allowed her chin to settle to her chest. She remained this way for several seconds as the rain fell on her brow and the wind pooled and eddied debris around her ankles. Then, in a miraculous defiance of gravity, she abruptly rose from the concrete sidewalk, hovering six inches above the ground with David Stillman nestled in her arms. The ghost of a smile played on her lips and then she began to ascend more rapidly until she floated before the window of the vacant room.

She probed the lock and it succumbed to her mastery, yielding to the puissance of her will with an audible snap. She glided over the threshold into the darkness and the window closed behind her.

2

Just north east of the city outskirts, the legion of the hypnotized had assembled in anticipation of the imminent arrival of their prophet...the man whose fiery rhetoric had led them to this place. In every eye there gleamed the narcoleptic flame of fanaticism, muted now, but ready to erupt in a violent frenzy once directed to do so.

Though there was now a congregation of several thousand holy warriors, they all seemed to have melted into one collective consciousness. One man could give them guidance and definitive purpose and direct them against the miscreant like the fall of a vengeful hammer.

They had come together in an old, abandoned ball field not fifteen miles from the contentious abandoned zone, bursting through the gates only to drift around the weed-choked field like zombies. All were heavily armed and all were prepared to die if that's what was required.

He would come soon and reveal his purpose and their role in the great cleansing...this prophet who had unleashed the age of purification. His disciples had skirted the fringes of religious mania, that terrifying ground where God and bloody retribution were inextricably intertwined. The prophet had drawn them across the line into a cauldron where God was all fire and wrath.

The distant drone of a light aircraft engine drifted over the crowded field and suddenly the mob was infused with a keen anticipatory expectation. When the light of the small craft appeared over the field, the thunderous roar of adulations rose up to greet it...alive with a frantic praise to an almighty God who must surely have blessed this sacred ground.

Gregor Ingram had changed planes three times during his flight from San Diego to Seattle and his final confrontation with the golden witch.

The entire journey had assumed aspects of the macabre, exacerbated by Ingram's rapid fluctuation between dreamy madness and tentative lucidity. Gregor seemed unconcerned by the fluctuation, but concerned or not, he could not shrug off the sense that he was being directed as surely as if he'd become a living marionette. For example, he could not recall having made any arrangement for flight changes, though such measures were prudent in light of how desperately the federal authorities wanted him captured.

Still, the thought that something had usurped control of his life...his great and glorious mission, filled him with a consuming anxiety. Peering back through the murky layers of the last several weeks, he could not recall when he had relinquished control of the process that he'd set in motion.

He was consumed by these thoughts as he flew through the turbulent California night. One of the pilots (he could not recall which one and he could not conjure a single detail or distinguishing feature of any of the four pilots) had evidently divined the course of his thoughts.

Reaching across the narrow confines of the cockpit, he had gently tapped Ingram's shoulder. Startled out of his uneasy reverie, Gregor had uttered a womanish cry and glanced over at the pilot, his face contorted into a frightened mask.

"Don't be frightened," the pilot had assured the prophet, though his voice resonated with a power and wisdom too vast to be contained in vessel of mere mortal flesh. "Discard your doubts, Gregor. They are instruments of corruption, intended to sway you from the warrior's path of righteousness upon which you've been set. Remember that Jesus faced moments of doubt and temptation in the desert and he could not be deterred. His faith in the chosen path sustained him. You must find the strength of conviction to do the same."

The two had not exchanged a single word from that point forth, but the pilot's sage council had placated Gregor's doubt, banishing them like the hollow demons they were.

Now the small plane banked and circled back, landing gracefully on the narrow two lane blacktop that ran adjacent to the abandoned ballpark. The pilot killed power to the engine and quickly opened the hatch, unfurling the metal stairs. He then turned back to his passenger and gestured for Ingram to follow. Perhaps it was a mere illusion created by a combination of shifting shadows, but for a flickering instant, Gregor thought that the man below him had no face...that his head was smooth and devoid of features.

' _Who are these people? Where are Walker and Drury_?' These questions erupted in his mind like a cloud of swarming wasps. These questions held court in his mind for only a few seconds and then the cacophonous thunder of adulation reached his ears and they dissipated like a mist.

He stepped from the small plane and straightened his rumpled jacket and a great gulp of damp ocean air. His confidence, supreme and unwavering, came back to him in an instant and he began to stride towards his waiting congregation as vast currents of power gathered around him like roiling thunderheads.

Gregor Ingram's moment of apotheosis had arrived.

As if on cue, a titanic round of applause arose from the assembly. Around the perimeter of the field, a series of lights burst into life, illuminating the cheering throng. Every eye blazed with reverence to greet the arrival of the prophet. He paused at the entrance to the field and extended his arms in a deliberate imitation of Jesus on the mount. Then he began to move towards the bleachers where an impromptu lectern had mysteriously been erected. The mob strained and cried, all wanting to touch the man whom they had come to see as their spiritual Messiah.

As Gregor mounted the stairs, the crowd fell into an expectant silence. He turned to face them, his body virtually thrumming with divine power. When he spoke, his voice was full-timbered and mesmerizing, rolling over the rainy expanse of the ball field like thunder.

"You have heeded the call of your master, the blessed Lord, who said that there is a time for all things. Now, at this crucial juncture for kingdom earth, it is a time for war. We must set aside the daily comforts of our everyday life and take up the cross and the sword. We have grown complacent...we have grown indolent...we have grown tolerant of sinners and miscreants. We have allowed ourselves to be led from the path of righteousness until we are so far from the narrow way that we are no longer under the eye of God. We have sat idly by while the morals of this great nation were violated by the base and the perverse. We have offered our airways as a forum for the decadent to spread their filth and heresy."

"By our own inaction, we have allowed his earthly kingdom to sink into a mire of evil and decadence." Here, he paused, allowing his fiery gaze to sweep over the congregation, pleased to see that every face had readily accepted his harsh recrimination. Then raising his voice in a solemn vow to the heavens, he cried, "NO MORE!"

"The days of passive acceptance are done. No more will America be a requiem for the perverse...for the despoiler...those who mock God with their profligate arrogance and vile works. Already the process of reversal has begun, but tonight we will strike a telling blow against the heathens and the arrogant pagans who so boldly flaunt their wickedness in the very face of the Lord."

"No more, I say!" Ingram's bombastic declaration seemed to shake the very earth.

"Lead us back to the path!" a solitary voice beseeched and soon the entire assembly was chanting the entreaty. Gregor basked in its radiance for several moments and then raised his arms for silence.

"When we allow ourselves to fall from grace, the Lord is forgiving if we seek forgiveness with humility and sincerity...but there is always a penance. Ours is the crime of sloth and complacency and these transgressions are most severe. If we are to be reclaimed, it must be through sacrifice. Do not believe for a moment that the pagan will readily surrender her hold on the earth. She will fight with the ferocity of a savage beast and if we are to vanquish her, we must show no quarter...we must meet her challenge with equal fervor."

He swept a pointed finger out over the enthralled assembly, knowing that they would willingly kill and die for him. "The pagan gods have sent forth the golden witch to raise the heathens in insurrection. Already they have burned God's church, killed god's faithful and fled like the craven beasts they are. Today, we have assembled to meet their hordes. We will go forth and drag their evil witch from her filth-slimed pedestal and then stake her screaming and writhing in God's light of day."

This was met with wildly enthusiastic cheers. When they finally subsided, Gregor issued a stern admonition. "We must go forth with all diligence and an inexorable commitment to the cause. Should we fail and the golden witch survives to see the coming of another night fall, it is unlikely that we will see another dawn."

"I implore you not to be deterred by false sentimentality. The opposition will be fierce and may be comprised as those whom we do not see as enemies. These friendly faces are false for they serve a corrupt purpose. Our so-called leaders are agents of decay. They have allowed the pagan to come unencumbered into the heart of our land and feed on its entrails. They have persecuted those who have raised a voice against this cancer of corruption...martyred the men and women who refused to accept this insidious erosion of his kingdom."

"If they send their agents against you, what will you do?" he demanded.

"Slew them!" came the unequivocal response.

"And if the Lord requires that you give up your life, will you heed that call?

"Yes!"

"And should he require that you surrender the lives of your husband...your wife...your children...will you do so without hesitation?"

"Yes!" responded the mob in a deluge of religious mania...a single-minded subservience to blood and holy vengeance.

"The Lord has sanctified you as his holy warriors and delegated you to reclaim the kingdom that we have frittered away through indifference. Let us pray!"

The group bowed their heads in unison and offered a prayer that their God ward them in their coming battle against the dark tide. Upon completion of the prayer, he again signaled for silence. "Let us go, but not like skulking dogs...furtive and skitterish, but like a juggernaut with crosses thrust before us. We will fell the enemy like a scythe through the black wheat of Satan's putrid pastures."

Moments later, with Gregor Ingram at the lead, the holy warriors filed out of the abandoned ballpark and began to converge upon the unsuspecting city of Seattle.

3

She sat in an armchair near the foot of the bed, her gaze fixed on his battered face as he slumbered fitfully. She had stripped off his gas-soiled rags and held him beneath the spray of the shower, trying to will herself away from consideration of his gaunt body with its wasted muscle and prominent ribs. When the last of the gasoline had been washed away, Elizabeth had enfolded him in an emerald green bathrobe and carried him to the bed.

Now, with no other distraction than the hypnotic ticking of the ancient spring clock to break the silence, Elizabeth studied the man who had held her life in thrall since she had first set eyes upon him nearly thirty-five years ago. As was the case then, his compelling attraction was still a perplexing mystery. On an intellectual level, she knew and understood David's flaws and inherent weaknesses. Normally, he was not the kind of man who would inspire a grand, enduring passion and yet she had risked everything to find him, including the lives of her family. Why? After thirty-five years, she was still unable to produce a plausible explanation.

Her emotional reaction to David Stillman, this imperfect mortal, was staggeringly complex. Even now, she wanted to go to him and cradle him against her, though time and events had opened a gulf between them that she dare not breach without invitation.

The robe was parted to his abdomen, revealing two rows of jutting ribs. He was thin to the point of gauntness, an eloquent indicator of just what Cynara's exile had cost him. It was frankly amazing that he had survived twenty-five years in the hostile, predatory hell of the abandoned zone. It spoke of a deeper mettle than she would have believed him to possess.

Despite the heavy bruising on his face, David looked essentially unchanged. Though his hair was sprinkled with a generous portion of gray, it was still thick and vital. Despite constant exposure to the harshness of the streets, his face was unlined and retained much of its youthfulness.

Abruptly, his eyes opened and locked on hers. There followed a moment of recognition that was electrifying in its intensity. A thousand emotions were conveyed between the pair like a free flowing electrical current in a moment of perfect empathy. Finally, Elizabeth was forced to avert her eyes before she began to cry.

When she was able to master her emotions and again meet his gaze, the moment was broken. He was regarding her with an expression of cautious distrust that hurt her heart.

"Am I dreaming this?" he inquired uncertainly.

"If you are, then we're sharing the same dream," she remarked softly.

"Have you finally come to kill me?" he asked flatly, his listless tone suggesting indifference. The resignation echoing in his voice caused her to bury her face in her hands and sob. An awkward silence descended upon the dimly lit room for several moments. David watched her intently, while Elizabeth wept quietly. He made no move to offer her comfort. At last, she inhaled sharply and blinked away her tears. "I can't say that I don't deserve that, but it doesn't make it any less painful."

He sat up, though the effort clearly caused him a great amount of pain, and scrutinized her closely. After a moment, he spoke...though his tone was now wondrous and slightly shaky. "It really is you, isn't it?"

"Yes, David, it really is me."

Stillman ran his palm across his face and winced, "Where was I and where am I now?"

"Before I tell you that, can I ask you what you remember?"

David frowned, his brow furrowing in concentration. "Fragments...I can remember being plagued by nightmares that made no sense but recurred again and again. Then, on the night that the gangs attacked the hostel and killed Wayman Carcavice, everything came back to me in a deluge. I remembered who I am, who you are and everything that happened in Semelar. I'm not certain if what I remember was a nightmare...surely it was?"

Elizabeth shook her head and now it was David's turn to stifle a groan. "David, what is your last memory of Semelar?"

The question evoked an agitated sigh. "I recall a horrible storm and a man who had come to kill Cynara...though I can't recall his name. I can recall that he was the most frightening, but courageous man I ever met."

Here, David faltered as though ripping open a deep and sensitive wound. "I vividly remember that I couldn't save you. When I saw the two of you together and realized that you'd become like her, I remember wanting to die...inviting death like a mercy. From that point forth, I can recall nothing until the night of the attack on the hostel."

Elizabeth shuddered and closed her eyes. David watched her, marveling at the formidable power of her beauty. Always a potent thing, he could feel it wanting to work it potent magic on him. To resist its power, he deliberately reiterated his former question. "Where is this place and where have I been?"

Elizabeth stood and came to sit on the bed beside him. "You are in the city of Seattle. We found you in the abandoned zone...a gang of youths were attempting to kill you."

His brow furrowed and his pale blue eyes darkened. "The one who found me...was it...her?"

Elizabeth merely nodded and David's only reaction was a tightening of his jaw muscles. When finally he relaxed, he asked, "You spoke of the abandoned zone...what exactly is that?"

Elizabeth carefully explained the concept of the abandoned zones to David, who grew increasingly more alarmed as he listened. "Abandoned zones...Christ, there were no abandoned zones in America...I mean, every city had its slums, but nothing like you're describing."

Then his eyes narrowed with dawning horror and he posed the question that Elizabeth knew was inevitable, but dreaded nonetheless. "How long...how much time has passed since that night in Semelar?"

Elizabeth glanced directly into his eyes, knowing that there was no way to attenuate the blow that was to follow. "Twenty-five years."

Stillman's eyes widened and his lower jaw dropped to his chest as though unhinged.

"Twenty-five years," he murmured softly. Then, as comprehension settled in, he began to weep. Elizabeth attempted to place a hand on his shoulder, but he brusquely thrust it aside and then turned away from her, curling up into a tight ball.

Feeling wretched, Elizabeth could do nothing other than watch him grope towards acceptance of all he had lost

4

Cynara had been reluctant to leave Elizabeth, not only because she detested the notion of her being left alone with Stillman who seemed capable of separating Simpson from her reason, but also because her instincts warned her that events were fast approaching their climax.

As she rounded the corner that led back to the hotel, she quickly discerned that the situation may well have progressed beyond the point of salvage.

A police cordon of brightly painted, retro-reflective saw horses had been positioned on either side of the hotel's main entrance. Cynara counted a dozen police cruisers parked helter-skelter along the street immediately adjacent to the hotel. In addition, three ambulances were parked directly in front of the handicap ramp. Rotating lights washed the street in eerie shades of red and blue, made all the more macabre by the falling rain.

Cynara pulled the car to the curb about a hundred yards from the hotel. She realized that she was dressed only in a blood-stained bra and began to rummage in the back seat for something to cover her upper body. It was after finding a black leather jacket that Cynara's eyes fell upon the brief case. It was expensive and well-crafted and seemed totally out of place in this wretched gang-banger mobile and so it could not help but pique her curiosity. On impulse, she snatched up the leather case and dragging on the leather jacket, Cynara stepped out into the rainy night.

Even though it was three o'clock in the morning, the profusion of emergency vehicles had attracted about a hundred ambulance chasers, who stood huddled behind the cordons, while at least ten policemen tried to insure that none of the gore crows would attempt to slip into the hotel.

Oblivious to the cold rain, Cynara stood in the shadows, pondering her options. She could easily gain entrance to the hotel without being noticed, but she decided it might be more prudent to discover what had transpired and then be forewarned if the trouble should involve Elizabeth or her rag-tag entourage. Cynara walked directly up to the nearest cordon and attracted the attention of one of the patrolmen, who shuffled over to her with a bored and unhappy expression that quickly brightened when he saw how beautiful his summoner was.

"Ma'am?" he began and then his eyes widened. "Hey, aren't you that model...Karnalla..."

Cynara offered the officer a forlorn smile and shook her head regretfully. "Don't I just wish...I wouldn't have to be traipsing around this wretched city in the middle of the night."

Seeming a trifle disappointed, he remarked, "I bet you must get that question all the time, right?"

"You can't begin to imagine," Cynara confirmed rather cryptically. "What exactly is going on here, officer?"

"Are you a registered guest of the hotel, Ma'am?"

"Yes," Saravic offered simply. The officer considered her for a moment and decided that she seemed both sincere and harmless. In a conspiratorial whisper, he related some of what had transpired based on the little information the authorities had gathered thus far. "There was a triple homicide here tonight."

Cynara affected an expression of mortified shock. "Good God...were they guests of the hotel?"

The officer leaned closer so that his disclosure would not be over heard by the other who had began to cluster around the pair in search of gossip. "The hotel clerk and the security guard were the first to go and about twenty minutes ago, we found a third body in the stairwell leading to the west exit. All three had been shot."

Cynara breathed a sigh of relief while her expression remained suitably grave. "Is there any apparent motive...I mean robbery or something?"

The policeman shook his head gravely. "Nothing...just three dead bodies."

Cynara wrapped her arms around her shoulders and cast the patrolman a particularly vulnerable glance. "If it's safe, I'd like to go to my hotel room now."

"I'll pass you through the front doors," the officer offered and pushing one of the barriers aside, led Cynara into the lobby. She glanced curiously at the collection of officers and technicians assembled in the lobby area. Her eyes flicked briefly over the maroon fan of dried blood that spattered the wall behind the reception desk, declaring that the victim had been shot. This realization caused Cynara's anxiety to abate if only slightly. Guns were not a means by which her former affiliates would do their business. At the elevator, the officer gave her the obligatory lecture along with the usual hollow reassurances. "Keep your door locked. If a detective wishes to question you, they will ring up first. Don't worry though because this place is going to be crawling with police over the next several days."

Cynara thanked the officer, smiling brilliantly as the elevator doors closed and the lift began to ascend. At the designated floor, Cynara exited the mirror and glass interior and walked quickly along the carpeted hall. She paused briefly before the suite door and then knocked briskly on the oak frame, reasoning that one of the two women would be anxiously awaiting Simpson's return. Pressing her ear to the door, Cynara's heightened auditory acuity informed her that there was no one within.

Frowning, she passed her hand over the card lock mechanism and pushed the heavy door open.

As she feared, the suite was empty.

Stepping in and closing the door behind her, she set the briefcase on the bed and went about trying to determine exactly what might have happened. It occurred to her that her initial assumption that the hotel murders were not connected to Simpson had been proven incorrect. Whoever had killed the desk clerk and security guard had come in search of Elizabeth and finding her gone, had improvised and abducted the two women instead.

As she emerged from the bathroom, Cynara frowned. The entire scenario was inconsistent with the normal manner in which her former masters would seek their revenge. From this, she progressed to the startling conclusion that this approach was more consistent with a human predator. She abruptly stopped, laughter welling up in her chest. What she was thinking was ludicrous of course. The dark father would never resort to such a desperate gambit as dispatching a human being to kill a creature of Elizabeth's power.

Then her gaze happened on the tiny tape recorder. She quickly crossed the room and snatched it up, surprised by the thundering tempo of her immortal heart as though this simple device was an evil talisman fraught with unspeakable dark powers. Folding a leg, she sat on the bed, still cradling the recorder in her palm. She was shocked by how much apprehension she felt as she depressed the play button, correctly surmising that this tape would reveal the culmination of whatever dark process was now at work.

"Greeting, Elizabeth Simpson," a gruff, heavily-accented voice declared blandly. Cynara recognized the accent as German or Austrian. "Though circumstances do not permit me to identify myself at this precise moment, I am confident that we will come to know each other as intimately as two people can in just a short while."

"I propose an evening of entertainment the likes of which you can't possibly imagine. Quite succinctly put...I intend to kill you, Ms. Simpson...an admittedly formidable task, I'm sure you'll agree. Of course, you will provide me with the opportunity because, as you've already noticed, I presently have possession of two people whom you hold dear. Three actually, as I mustn't forget your unborn grandchild. In case you doubt the authenticity of my claim or question my honor, I have enlisted the aid of one of these women in divulging the details of my proposed entertainment. Not Contayza, of course...your daughter-in-laws unique ability requires that I keep her sedated. Cassie is a lovely girl on the verge of womanhood. Her gray eyes are particularly exceptional. Should you not comply with the demand I'll make, you will receive her eyes as a token of your refusal. Listen carefully, Ms. Simpson."

The voice of Cassie Jasic next filled the room. The girl was clearly frightened, but still composed. Cynara found her respect for the young beauty growing with each uttered sentence. "Elizabeth, both Contayza and I are fine. The man holding us promises that we will remain that way if you agree to meet him at a location that he will reveal before the conclusion of this tape."

The girl was clearly reading from a script, but her voice conveyed no hint that she felt her life might be in immediate danger.

Soon the voice of the foreigner replaced Cassandra's. "As you can hear, Ms. Simpson, the ladies are very much alive and they will remain that way provided that you comply with my demands. There is an abandoned warehouse less than a mile from this fine hotel along the same avenue. You will meet me there and we will conduct our business after which the women will be set free...regardless of what might pass between us. I sense that you are a woman of honor and my warning is unnecessary. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to deliver it just the same. I will allow you forty-eight hours to comply with my instructions. If after the provided time, you still have not arrived, I will kill the girl and parcel post her body parts to the hotel. If after an additional twenty-four hours, you still do not accept my invitation, I will kill the Gypsy whore and your unborn granddaughter. I will then send a series of rather grizzly mementoes to your son in Boston."

"Even if you are craven enough to allow these things to come to pass, you will not escape the inevitably death that awaits you. You see, Ms. Simpson, I am a most tenacious dog and where ever you run, I will find you. Ah, but I trust this belligerent saber-rattling is unnecessary because I judge you to be a noble woman. I await our meeting with the keenest anticipation."

The tape abruptly ended and Cynara switched it off, regarding the tiny device quizzically, trying to rationalize the improbability of what it conveyed. Touching a long index finger to the hollow of her temple, Cynara was unsure if what she had just heard should inspire feelings of amusement or trepidation. She had little doubt that the voice belonged to a mortal. The methodology of his attack had been purely human...that of a competent assassin or mercenary, but a human nonetheless. The tape went a long way in revealing what had transpired at the hotel over the past few hours.

The execution of the attack had been flawless and spoke of a man of boldness and supreme confidence. He had not tried to gain access to the hotel by stealth or guile. Instead, he had ruthlessly killed every obstacle. Obviously, the assassin had no fear or respect for the civil authorities. He expressed his contempt for them with brutal murder.

But what did it all mean...this audacious plot to force Elizabeth in to a confrontation by using her friends and family as leverage? Cynara could not be certain and it was this uncertainty that filled her veins with ice water. Despite her best efforts, she could not fathom what might compel her former masters to turn Elizabeth's sanction over to a mere mortal. The immediate temptation was to dismiss the threat, but her painful experience and near demise in Chevru had come as a consequence of her implacable refusal to believe that her enemies posed a serious threat to her existence. Her monumental arrogance had nearly cost her life and would have had it not been for the compassion of the extraordinary creature that Cynara was now striving so desperately to save.

She turned to her own experience to provide some insight into the nature of the present machinations and produced three possible scenarios...each more chilling and sinister than the last. It was possible that this was an elaborate charade designed to lull Elizabeth in to a false sense of security. On the surface, this seemed plausible enough until she considered that Simpson was not familiar with the devious methodology of her former masters. Even if Elizabeth did fall for the ruse, it was not her nature to take a cavalier approach to any situation in her life. She was simply not capable of that level of arrogance.

Discarding the first option led her directly to the second...it was possible that, in the name of discretion, her former masters would employ a mortal as a lure to draw Simpson into a trap to be sprung by a select group of demons. She dismissed this scenario because it was inconsistent with the usual method of direct and brutal response to any perceived challenge or disobedience on the part of one of the dark father's servants. True, they had unveiled an assassination scheme that was bewilderingly complex, but Cynara still believed that, when the culminating moments arrived, the plot would unfold with predictable brutality. The elaborate scheme was really a testimony to how much the dark lords feared Elizabeth.

To Cynara's way of thinking this left one final possibility...the mortal assassin possessed the means to destroy Elizabeth.

' _Elizabeth's ceremonial dagger_!' Its image leapt unbidden into Cynara's mind. She had commissioned that very dagger to be cast on the forge of Hell so that Elizabeth would be hers and hers alone. Was it possible that she had been indiscreet with the one instrument with which a mortal could end her life? Under normal circumstances she would have rejected the notion out of hand, but these were hardly normal circumstances. In her frantic pursuit of the gelding, Stillman, Elizabeth seemed to have eschewed everything...even common sense. Therefore, it was not unthinkable that she might have been careless with the dagger.

Still, possessing the dagger and actually being able to use it were hardly the same things. There was little change that a mortal could actually use the weapon with an infinitely stronger and faster demon.

Then the brilliantly illuminated revelation exploded in Saravic's mind like the detonation of a hydrogen bomb, causing her to emit a strangled cry of pain. The sheer insidious genius of the scheme became clear in the blink of an eye, leaving her with little doubt that the mortal had Simpson's dagger. Tonight, with the abduction of Contayza and the girl, who Elizabeth doted upon, the assassin had gained the leverage to force her to use it on herself. Knowing Elizabeth as she did, Cynara knew that Simpson was vulnerable to that type of coercion.

Cynara uttered a despairing groan and stood up, still clutching the tiny recorder in her hands. The remnant of the demon she had once been was attempting to work its seductive magic on her...imploring her to abandon Simpson and think only of her self-preservation. The dark aspect of her nature insisted that she would be well served by distancing herself from Elizabeth Simpson and her intractable righteousness.

Had it not been Elizabeth, herself, who exhorted Cynara to distance herself if she intended to safely take up the threads of Karnalla Mansley's life? In the strict name of survival, would it not be better if the Gypsy and the runaway died and if Stuart Macevey met with an accident in the not too distant future? If Elizabeth and Stillman died at the hands of this assassin, would her own freedom not be assured? The old Cynara would have succumbed to such advice in the blink of an eye, but the new incarnation had been suffused with Elizabeth's sense of obligation and loyalty. Cynara suddenly understood that the rest of her existence would be spent entertaining these type of dark contemplations...she would have to fight the dark side of her nature the way a recovering alcoholic wages his eternal war with the bottle.

She glanced down at the tiny black recorder, paralyzed by indecision. Is she conveyed this challenge to Elizabeth, she would set in motion a chain of event that would ultimately lead to Simpson's destruction...to the annihilation of the one thing she loved above all others.

If she suppressed the information and destroyed the recorded challenge and simply told Simpson that the pair was gone upon her return, both women would die, but the threat would be defused. Then the hunter would become the hunted and she could find the mortal assassin and safely retrieve Elizabeth's dagger. As appealing as this course of action was, Cynara knew that she would not follow it and again wondered if the constraints under which she'd been reborn were not really moral chains and fetters. The new Cynara did not have the luxury of absolute self-possession and thus regarded apprising Elizabeth of this latest dark twist as the only real alternative.

Sighing, she tucked the recorder into her jacket pocket, while ignoring the part of her that was appalled by the moral shackles that had been placed upon her. Her gaze happened on the briefcase and on impulse and she leaned over, flipping the clasps. The lid flipped up to reveal a complex electronic display board. Fascinated, Cynara flipped the central power toggle and the console blazed to life. The right side of the console was dominated by a grid upon which flashed hundreds of tiny points of light.

The left side of the console was dominated by a keyboard for direct entry and above this there glowed a series of cryptic information displays. Cynara's smooth brow furrowed as she tried to discern the function of the device. Then her eyes fell on one particular readout near the bottom of the console.

Number of devices armed: 257.

Cynara's eyes widened in shocked horror as comprehension filtered in. She frantically scanned the console and located another line of information that confirmed her worst fears. A single blue dot was located amongst the 257 red dots and a glowing legend key denoted it as...Present position of detonation control.

She stood up and backed away from the device, understanding that it was a controlling unit for a series of explosive devices. If the display was correct, there were 257 such devices located in the confines of whatever area this grid represented. The simple logic of association led Cynara to conclude that the devices were scattered around the area where their owners had met their bloody demise.

Something occurred to Saravic and she drew the recorder from her pocket and replayed the message. Returning her attention to the grid display, she traced her index finger along the curved glass and discovered that, even if her proportions were inaccurate, the assassins proposed location for the confrontation was well within the detonation perimeter of the devices.

Cynara's mind reeled under the weight of this latest element of intrigue.

' _Do you realize that you have the means to end this now...to effectively terminate the scheme before the dirty trap can even be sprung_.' She shook her head in dismay. There were probably thousands of people crawling through the abandoned zone tonight.

Cursing, she shut down the power and snapped the lid shut. She would go to Elizabeth with the recorder and detonator in hand and provide her friend with a truthful, unbiased account of all that had transpired.

From there, she would allow Simpson to decide how best to deal with her dilemma and do everything that she could to protect her once she did.

Chapter Thirty

1

"And you, Elizabeth? What's happened to you in the past twenty-five years?"

Startled, she glanced up from her mournful reverie to find him watching her with eyes that were dull and weary. The initial impression of youthfulness was gone as thought the weight of the twenty-five years had dropped upon his shoulders in the blink of an eye. There was an obligatory air about his question as though it held no real interest for him.

"I...I'm not sure where to begin. For twenty years of that time, I was a prisoner...very much like you have been."

The remark provoked a sharp speculative glance from Stillman. Curiosity piqued, he echoed, "A prisoner?"

Haltingly, Elizabeth began to recount the tale of her life as an immortal, concluding with a painful recollection of the dramatic events that had eventually led to her extrication from her cage.

"You watched helplessly while the thing that controlled you committed acts of murder and violence...killed your former husband...Good Christ. Maybe twenty-five years of disorientation wasn't so bad." This last remark had been offered without much conviction. "Yet, you finally killed Cynara."

Simpson nodded.

Stillman pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing at the painful stiffness in his side. "So that wasn't Cynara back in the abandoned zone?"

"No, it was Cynara," Elizabeth admitted, averting her eyes from his reproachful gaze. "David, I should have died in Chevru. Cynara gave up her life so that I could live. In the end, I simply couldn't kill her and so I absorbed her spirit and confined it to a prison just like the one I was in after Semelar."

"But she destroyed your life and the lives of many thousands of others," David protested passionately. "You should have obliterated the bitch and stomped her into dust."

Elizabeth accepted his reproach with a tight nod. "From the moment I regained possession of my body, I've been consumed with one driving thought...finding you. Had I killed Cynara in Chevru, I never would have found you!"

"Elizabeth, the world would have been better served by having me rot in the abandoned zone if it meant having Cynara dead!"

Simpson shook her head vehemently, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to sweep her away. "David, she's changed...since her reanimation, Cynara's done nothing by protect me. She saved your life, David!"

David dismissed this with an impatient wave of his arm. "If you had seen the way she killed those teenagers, you'd realize that nothing has changed. She butchered them, Elizabeth...slaughtered them with the same sadistic glee she demonstrated in Semelar. Do you remember Semelar, Elizabeth or has time glossed over that particular memory? Do you recall the children she slaughtered?"

"STOP IT!" Simpson shrieked so suddenly and loudly that David recoiled as though he'd been struck by a blow. She leapt to her feet and stalked around the room. David watched her wordlessly, transfixed by the snaps of orange that had threaded their way through her blue eyes. "When I close my eyes, I see the faces of every victim...not just hers, but mine as well. I carry those scars on my soul and if I live a thousand life times, they'll never heal. Cynara has changed, but if she hasn't, it will be another indictment against me!"

She crossed the room and stood over him, her faces only inches from his and one powerful hand entwined in the lapel of his robe. "Even if she had come back as the devil himself, I would have reanimated her because she was the only one who knew how to find you."

"And why was that so important to you that you would risk bringing a fucking monster back to life?"

"Because I love you!" she cried and turning away from him, burst into tears.

Stunned, he watched her, his mind tumbling in incredulity. Had this demon...this supernatural entity who so resembled the woman he once cherished just declared her love for him? He groped for a coherent response, but found none. Like his body, his emotions had been dulled by lack of use. He could only watch as she sobbed convulsively, enthralled by the tremulous rise and fall of her shoulders.

She suddenly whirled about to face him, crying unabashedly, but when she spoke her voice was fierce and low. "Most of my life has been a travesty. I've mismanaged every major juncture...my marriage, my son, and perhaps worst of all, you. I refused to listen to you when you tried to help me...to protect me from Cynara. Everyone paid dearly for my obstinacy...including Nathaniel and you."

"Liz, it was hardly your fault. The responsibility for what happened in Semelar belongs entirely to Cynara."

Elizabeth shook her head in emphatic denial. "That is where you're wrong, David. Cynara seduced me and I succumbed...pure and simple. That is why I'm not afforded the luxury of hating Cynara. Perhaps, I was victimized, but so was she and she was not so fortunate as to have a son and a man she loved to spare her from moral dissolution. I had no choice but to find you, irrespective of the cost. I wanted to apologize and beg your forgiveness and try to give you back something of what you've lost."

He said nothing for several seconds, finally averting her eyes before the intensity of her gaze. Those beautiful blue eyes were frank and forthright, just as he remembered them. This was truly the Elizabeth he had always known. Still, she was profoundly different...more formidable somehow. "I'm sorry if I seem ungrateful. Cynara frightens me. Beneath her actions, I could never trust her motivations...but I suppose you know her far better than I do."

Elizabeth winced and stiffened. Had there been a note of derisive recrimination in his voice? She suspected that there was and the idea lanced her heart, robbing her of any vapid notion she might have harbored. Whatever had existed between them was irrevocably lost. It occurred to her then just how much importance she had pinned on this encounter, never once considering her life beyond this single moment. Now she could see a desolate void stretching along a barren path to utter despair. He sensed her pain and immediately felt a stab of regret. "I'm sorry, Liz...I really didn't mean that as it sounded."

She raised her hand and shook her head and the pair lapsed into an awkward silence. Unable to endure the palpable tension, she finally asked, "What will you do now, David?"

He considered the question thoughtfully and shook his head. "I really have no idea. I guess this is what it's like to be in cryogenic suspension and awaken to find that the world you knew has changed to the point of being unrecognizable. What little I've seen has frightened me...I have no real concept of how long I've lived in the abandoned zone, but if it's indicative of how much the world has changed and the direction in which its moved, I don't know if I can survive in it."

He glanced up at her and for once, his eyes appeared resolute. "The only thing I can say with any degree of certainty is that I hope that you'll be there to help me cope with what ever changes I have to deal with."

Her eyes widened, first in surprise and then unadulterated delight. "You're saying that there is a possibility of forgiveness?"

David leaned back against the headboard and regarded the immortal gravely. "Liz, the memory of what happened in Semelar in those final days is still rather murky, but I sincerely believe there is nothing to forgive. As you say, you were seduced by Cynara, but a better choice of words might be that you were beguiled by the bitch."

"Still, if I'd only listened," she began, flailing herself with the old regret.

"Not a single damned thing would have changed!" Stillman interjected pointedly. "You were Cynara's quarry...she was willing to destroy an entire town to have you. Do you really think she would have relented if you'd said, "Sorry, I'm not really interested." It's unlikely that an egocentric bitch like Cynara would have readily accepted your polite refusal. Irrespective of your willingness, she would have taken you and failing that, she would have killed you. So you see the question of forgiveness doesn't apply."

She lowered her head and brushed at her eyes, not wanting to cry again. "David, do you understand what I've become?"

David pondered the question for some time and then admitted that he did not.

"I could best be described as an immortal. I have not aged a day since Cynara turned me. I will never age...I will never grow sick and I cannot be killed by mortal hands or weapons. I was created by a process of ceremony involving a ritualistic dagger. Ironically, it is the only instrument by which a human can kill me. Other creatures of my kind can kill me, but not without great difficulty. I have the ability to shape shift and project my astral spirit. I can divine thoughts and seize control of another person's mind if I have to. There are dozens of other abilities and probably more that I'm still unaware of. These are the physical manifestations of what I've become."

David regarded her with an expression of absolute astonishment. She watched him for a second longer and then strode across the room and knelt before him, closing her hands on his. "In spirit, I'm still the same Elizabeth you've always known...a hopeless romantic who wears her emotions like a flag. I've devoted the last five years of my life to finding you and while I'm being candid, I might as well admit that I privately harbored the hope that the two of us would finally have the opportunity to live the life we should have had all along. We've allowed two opportunities to slip away...hopefully this third time will be the charm."

He gazed into those compelling eyes, searching for some sign of guile. In those blue depths he could find only an open and earnest need. He was struck by her formidable beauty...the exquisite perfection of her refined face and the curving magnificence of her body was still able to work their intoxicating magic on his tired flesh. To think that this beauty was now timeless...and then, in stark juxtaposition, he thought of himself...a man well past middle age, ravaged by a cold, sterile life on the streets. He would sicken and eventually die. He turned his face away from her and raised his hands to cover his glistening eyes.

"David, don't shield your thoughts from me...please!"

He glanced up at Simpson, his expression fraught with pain and misery. "Look at what I've become...a broken old man!"

She placed the flat of her palm along his stubbled cheek, stroking it tenderly. "David, I can't return your youth...perhaps only God can do that, but a can insure that you never age another day."

She allowed this thought and all that it implied to hang between them. David inclined his head to one side, a speculative light gleaming in his eyes. "You're suggesting that I could become like you...an immortal?"

She nodded vigorously. "Think David, I'm proposing an eternity together in compensation for everything that we've lost, either through our own stupidity or the cruel twists of fate."

David raised his fingers to his temples and massaged his forehead, his mind reeling under the avalanche of a thousand possibilities that now opened before him. He started to speak, but faltered. She placed a long index finger on his lips. "There's no need to answer now...it's just an option to consider. You have time...we have time!"

He nodded hesitantly. "I'm old."

"No older than I am...and certainly not ancient," she disagreed. Then a playful, teasing light stole into her eyes which began to glow like sapphires. With deliberate slowness, she reached for the sash of his bath robe, knowing that he was naked beneath. "In fact, I would wager that you're younger than you think."

She deftly began to undo the knot, but he abruptly clamped a hand over her wrist. "Why me, Elizabeth?"

She gazed at him quizzically and he reiterated his question. "I have to know what it is about me that attracts you as it does. We were high school sweethearts and shared a few weeks after..."

He trailed off, unable to articulate his sense of wonder that he had somehow managed to captivate this extraordinary creature. She sat back on her haunches, a lock of blond hair hanging fetchingly over one eye. The answer was exceedingly complex and not easily conveyed, but she saw that it was a matter of pivotal importance to David and so she attempted to produce a heartfelt, meaningful response. "This may sound like pure romantic drivel from a cheap Victorian novel, but I believe that you and I are kindred spirits...that we are perfect compliments to each other. I've spent a good many hours reflecting on what happened in Semelar and I came to the conclusion that, had Cynara not appeared like a dark cloud, you and I would have been married and lived a quiet, joyful life together...we would have given Nathaniel brothers and sisters and created our own personal version of Camelot."

Melancholy stole into both her eyes and voice as she spoke, conveying the enormity of the pain and loss that lingered in her heart. "I saw us as a middle-aged couple...me, the accomplished designer and you, the great American novelist...happily growing old with our children around us. These are the images that sustained me through the dejection and loneliness of the past five years. I'm speaking of synchronicity and despite all that's happened and what I've become; I still fervently believe that it can still exist between us."

She stopped, searching his eyes for some sign of acceptance. He smiled affectionately and was about to speak when a voice from somewhere behind the pair declared, "What's more Stillman, she's always had an affinity for lost causes."

Stillman grimaced and involuntarily pushed himself against the headboard. Infuriated, Elizabeth leapt to her feet and spun to confront the intruder. "How dare you barge in unannounced...you presume too much, Cynara!"

The statuesque silhouette leaned casually against the wall near the window through which she'd gained entrance into the room. Pushing herself away from the wall, she started towards the pair. Rigid with terror, David watched her approach. Now attired in her signature black, this new incarnation possessed a beauty the magnitude of which was both frightening and painful to behold. Still, the demeanor was pure Cynara...haughty, aloof and contemptuous. Her eyes flickered to Stillman and then came to center on Elizabeth.

"How long have you been here?" Elizabeth demanded, her voice livid. An expression of unadulterated pain rippled across Cynara's face. "Long enough...like a dark cloud," she muttered and then held a briefcase and tiny recorder out to Simpson. "I'm afraid your rather touching reunion is going to have to be cut short."

2

At about the same time that David Stillman awoke to find himself confronted by what he thought to be an apparition of Elizabeth Simpson, and Cynara Saravic was pondering the grave implications of the discovery she had just made, Stuart Macevey had just returned to the command and control center. Even as he entered, Macevey was aware of the furtive scrutiny of the trailer's occupants, who had undoubtedly learned of his odd edict allowing a vehicle to be escorted out of the abandoned zone. Thankfully, no one was forward enough to question him on the decision as he could have produced no rational explanation for his odd actions.

Head bowed, Macevey returned to his desk and began to rummage through the section reports, all of which essentially confirmed what he already knew; the city of Seattle was once again back in control of the abandoned zone. Dawn was only three hours away and the operation had been conducted at the loss of two hundred and fifty four men and women. He had been specifically ordered to provide the media with no figures on the casualties incurred by the gangs which he knew would prove to be several times higher.

There were many things that he should be attending to including the drafting of a major press communiqué for the morning, but Stuart found that he could not focus his concentration upon the task. Instead, he found himself preoccupied by thoughts of the mercurial creatures who shared the night with lowly mortals. Elizabeth Simpson had succeeded in convincing him that she was not a psychopathic murderess. There seemed to be a genuine air of humanity about her that he doubted could be feigned.

He was pondering his strange meeting with Simpson when Colonel Jonas swept into the trailer seemingly propelled by a wave of precision polish and self-importance. Macevey stood to greet the man, who regarded the policeman with cold, incisive eyes. "It looks like our little problem has been put to bed, Captain."

Macevey pursed his lips. "I would think that declarations of victory would be a bit premature, Colonel. The problems of the abandoned zone are a long way from being put to bed. When all of the flag waving and chest pounding is over, the task of making this place habitable again is going to be tedious and troublesome."

"A job for bureaucrats and social workers, Macevey. You and I have done our part," Jonas declared with a dismissive wave. Macevey said nothing. Both he and the Colonel knew that Macevey was slated to play a major role in reconstructing the zone. Macevey accepted the barb with a tight nod.

"I trust that you haven't come to discuss the general success of the mission?" Macevey prompted, suddenly feeling bone weary.

Jonas uttered a deep, rumbling laughter. "I think I like you, Macevey. Basically, I've come to discuss a withdrawal timetable for my troops. Order has been restored and I think we can quickly turn matters over to the civil authorities, would you agree?"

Macevey nodded. "Yes, but I would appreciate it if you could leave a small contingency force behind. Some of the weaponry we've been finding is pretty sophisticated and even a small pocket of thugs could inflict a lot of damage."

"Not a problem," Jonas assured the Captain. Macevey stifled a grin, suspecting that Jonas would issue the same casual response to just about any request. ' _This guy really is the quintessential grunt_ ,' he thought and this time he did smile.

A communications tech popped up from behind her display and announced that Franklin Lawland was calling on line three. Macevey frowned and glanced at his watch. The floating digital display declared that it was five minutes to four in the morning.

Even as he picked up the phone, a thread of anxiety wormed its way into his guts.

"This is Macevey, commander."

"Is Colonel Jonas with you, Stuart?" Lawland inquired quickly, his voice fraught with exigency.

"Yes, the Colonel is here," Macevey replied, his anxiety mounting by the minute.

"Dismiss the rest of the staff, Stuart. Send them out for a smoke break...quickly."

Perplexed, Macevey glanced at Jonas, who was watching him closely. Then he stood and ushered the staff out into the chilly September night. There was a general round of grumbling, but the others decamped quickly, sensing that something critical was in the offing.

"The line is clear, commander."

"Switch to intercom and then turn on CNN."

Macevey winced. CNN had become the harbinger of everything bad when it came to government agencies learning of some inimical development.

Macevey complied quickly. The screen was filled with what appeared to be a march of rally of some sort. Tens of thousands of people were moving slowly, but inexorably along a city street, blocking traffic in both directions.

"What you're seeing, gentlemen, is the onset of a new and particularly delicate crisis in our little city by the ocean," Lawland declared. At the front of the procession, a single man was standing upright in a convertible, exhorting the others forward with a bullhorn. "The man on the screen at the moment is Gregor Ingram, renegade leader of the Revisionist Church. As you probably know, he is sought by federal authorities on a list of charges too numerous to mention."

"Why the hell is he here?" Jonas demanded irritably as thought this was a distinct waste of his time.

"Perhaps I should allow him to explain this himself. Turn up the volume if you would, Stuart."

Macevey did and the thunderous bombast of Gregor Ingram rumbled through the command and control center. Stuart listened, the color draining from his face. He stole a brief glance at Jonas, who appeared both confused and exasperated by the man's raving.

"Ours is the cause of the righteous...the holy. We are the army of God. We have come to cleanse the earth of the Devil's Harlot...to purge with fire and steel, the filth that has slimed his kingdom. Let no man stand in our way or attempt to deter us from the path of righteousness, for he shall be struck down! If the edifices of evil or the warders of the wicked attempt to oppose us, we shall lay them low, pull down their false idols and cast them into the sea."

"Why doesn't someone just arrest the bastard?" Jonas demanded.

"We tried, Colonel Jonas. When the procession was first spotted, a team of federal and state agents attempted to bring Mr. Ingram into custody. They were quickly rounded up and crucified on makeshift wooden poles."

"Son of a bitch!" Jonas exclaimed, clearly sickened.

"As I've said before, gentlemen, this is a matter of extreme delicacy. In light of the civil strife that has wracked the country in the last few weeks, The President of the United States has asked the Governor that this situation be handled with the utmost care. The Governor has ordered that your forces be prepared to deal with this situation should it turn especially ugly."

"Do we have any notion regarding why Ingram has come to Seattle?" Macevey heard himself ask, though part of his mind had already leapt ahead to a probable explanation.

"You heard him refer to the Devil's Harlot. Keeping in mind that the man is seriously deranged, he has claimed that a particular woman is some manner of satanic prophet. Furthermore, he has come to believe that this woman is here in Seattle. What has led him to this conclusion is open to speculation. He has come to destroy her in a public ceremony that will amount to the opening salvo in a great jihad...a Holy war."

"Does this woman have a name?" Jonas inquired only half seriously.

"As matter of fact, she does, though this is even more perplexing than any other aspect of this whole strange affair. Elizabeth Simpson has been missing and presumed dead for nearly twenty-five years. In the last few days, she had gained a certain notoriety in the press. It is suspected that the elusive Ms. Simpson was involved in a murder in Colorado and a gas station explosion in California less than two days ago. For whatever reason, Ingram has come to perceive this woman as a supernatural emissary of Satan."

Colonel Jonas uttered a spate of derisive laughter. Lawland, however, was not so amused. "This would be ludicrous, even laughable, if not for the fact that Ingram has chosen Seattle to be the site of his great stand against evil. Ingram, as mad as he may be, has the support of tens of thousands of equally mad zealots and they have already demonstrated no compunction about using lethal force against any opposition."

"I take it that you want us to stop them?" Macevey asked, dreading the prospect.

"No, at least not for the moment. We ask that the Guard and Civil units form a loose perimeter around this procession and allow them to proceed until we can discern their exact intentions. We are hoping, once it becomes obvious that this group is chasing smoke, they will simply drift apart, allowing us to take Ingram into custody without a huge commotion."

The two men exchanged decidedly skeptical glances, both doubting that this situation would find a simple resolution.

"Do we have any indication of exactly where they're heading?" Jonas inquired, already turning his thoughts to the task of dispatching and positioning the monitoring units. The subsequent pause was almost palpable in its intensity, after which Lawland finally replied, "It would seem that they're headed directly for the abandoned zone. At any rate, try to get units into position as quickly as possible, keeping in mind that we want to do nothing that might provoke this lunatic. No actions are to be taken without specific instructions from this office."

Then he was gone, leaving the two bewildered commanders gaping at the television. Ingram was continuing to rail about the evils of the government and its collusion with Satan."

"This is one fucked up mess we've gotten ourselves into, Captain," Jonas remarked bitterly. "There are women and children in that group. Can you imagine the backlash if we're ordered to use force against them?"

Macevey could, but even that grim eventuality was not his primary concern. Unlike anyone else preparing to cope with this latest macabre twist, he was the only one who knew that the object of Gregor Ingram's Holy war was very real.

The two men bandied about ideas and tactics for several minutes and then Jonas left to mobilize the units he would require. Macevey set about making arrangements of his own, but in the back of his mind, he was trying to formulate a way of alerting Elizabeth Simpson that a writhing tide of madness was converging upon her.

3

When Macevey had theorized that he was the only man in Seattle to grasp the precise nature of what had transpired, he had surmised incorrectly.

Nathaniel Simpson had arrived in Seattle less than two hours earlier with the intention of searching for his mother and missing wife. Pain and exhaustion had forced him to seek out a hotel and a few hours of rest. He lay upon the bed of the nondescript hotel room, absently watching CNN's broadcast of the occupation of the abandoned zone that was being heralded as a great victory for social reform.

He attempted to concentrate on the broadcast, but like Stuart Macevey, Nathaniel found his thoughts drawn to Elizabeth and Contayza. Try as he might to hold the notion at bay, the prospect that he had lost both (he could not bring himself to think of his unborn daughter) kept creeping into his conscious thoughts. This evoked a sense of unrelenting gloom and despair that filled him with a convulsive shudder of dread and he forced them from his mind, knowing that they would soon return despite his best efforts to hold them at bay.

Abruptly the coverage broke to another location in Seattle. Nath required only one look at the man on the screen and his attention was suddenly riveted upon the screen.

Gregor Ingram.

Nath was pulled back to the day that Elizabeth had left his Boston home in search of David Stillman. They had watched a series of television programs, one of which featured the very same Gregor Ingram, who had called for a Holy war against the ' _Golden Witch_ '. Here he was, in the flesh, prepared to lead his army of zealots against this symbol of iniquity.

Somehow Elizabeth had known that both he and the female doctor had been referring to her. Events had unfolded to vindicate her certitude. Elizabeth was here and so was Ingram.

Finding the remote, he turned up the volume and listened intently to the report. The procession had killed without reservation or restraint and vowed to do so again if interfered with. Both the authorities and the media were speculating that the group's intended destination was the very abandoned zone that had so recently been reclaimed in the name of modern social reform.

Ignoring both weariness and pain, Nath pushed himself to his feet and hurried to the bathroom where he swallowed three painkillers. In the next instant, he was tugging on his jacket and heading out the door, desperate to find Elizabeth before Ingram's hordes did.

4

When the recording had concluded, Cynara reached forward and switched off the tiny recorder. Elizabeth's countenance was one of glassy dismay. Saravic could plainly see that the assassin had been chillingly precise in his estimation of Simpson's reaction to the news of the abductions.

Elizabeth sat, ashen-faced, her blue eyes lost in grim contemplation. It was Stillman who broke the charge silence. "Would anyone mind telling me just what the hell that was about?"

Saravic ignored him pointedly. Tenderly, she reached out and gripped Simpson's wrist, not particularly surprised to find that the hand she held was shaking slightly. "Elizabeth, this is not the time to fall to pieces. You're going to have to be quick-witted if you're going to extricate yourself from this rather cunning little trap."

Simpson glanced up at Cynara, her eyes glazed and pain-ridden. "I was a fool to leave them alone. They were vulnerable and defenseless."

Cynara, who had urged her to leave the two women in Portland, was gracious enough not to point this out. Instead, she gripped Elizabeth's shoulders and shook them emphatically. "Elizabeth, you can't afford to dwell upon what you should and shouldn't have done. The salient issue is what you're going to do now."

Simpson gazed at Saravic and nodded, prompting the other immortal to sigh internally. If Elizabeth was capable of listening, she was also capable of being saved. "Before we can decide how best to deal with this, there is something I have to know...have you been indiscreet with your dagger?"

Elizabeth gazed into Cynara's dark eyes for several moments and then averted her eyes to her folded hands. "I left the dagger with Nathaniel. I wanted him to have something of value by which to remember me."

Cynara closed her eyes and frowned, the final aspect of her third scenario clanging into place like the bolt of a prison cell. Elizabeth abruptly peered into Cynara's eyes, "Nathaniel's dead, isn't he?"

"You have no way of knowing that for certain. When the Gypsy had the local police search their home, they found a ransacked house, nothing more. Dwelling on every pessimistic possibility is going to do you no good whatsoever. I think I understand what is going on and if I'm correct in my assessment, there is a good chance that Nathaniel is still alive."

Methodically, Cynara began to outline her interpretation of the plot against Elizabeth and how that plot might reach its culmination.

David listened with mounting horror. Finally, unable to endure any further, he reached out and grabbed Cynara's left wrist. "Tell me what this is about."

Saravic brusquely shook him off and glared at Stillman, her eyes blazing with unbridled enmity. He drew back, but reiterated his question. "Please will one of you tell me what this is about?"

It was Elizabeth who spoke, her voice wan and listless. "Cynara's former masters wish to kill me. Among other reasons, they believe that I betrayed and killed her. I've spent the last five years attempting to elude them, but it looks like the inevitable moment of confrontation has finally arrived."

Appalled, Stillman glanced at Saravic. "Goddamn it, she's alive. Can't she simply come forward and declare herself...call off the dogs?"

"That would achieve nothing, David. Since my allegiance is not to them, they view me as an abomination. They would seek to destroy me for no other reason than the fact of my existence frightens them. Exposing Cynara would only subject her to the same fate."

Stillman glared balefully at Cynara. "I asked you how you can trust her. Who's to say that she isn't trying to draw you directly into the trap that she claims she's trying to help you avoid?"

Before Elizabeth could react, Cynara was on Stillman, her powerful hands locked around his throat. Simpson bounded over and hauled the snarling Saravic off of David, who curled onto his side, choking and clutching his injured throat.

"Cynara, I've got enough to consider without the two of you bickering like children," Elizabeth seethed, holding back the taller woman. "Now calm down, please."

She turned back to David, who had pushed himself to a sitting position, his face flushed with anger. "David, taunting Cynara is going to do nothing to make my situation easier. She has done nothing but help me since her reanimation."

Stillman regarded Simpson apologetically for a moment and then flicked a glance at Saravic before signaling his willingness to desist with a tacit nod. "Elizabeth, what are you going to do?"

Simpson shrugged helplessly. "Under the circumstances, I don't see that I have any real option. I'm going to comply with his demand."

"Good Christ, you'll be committing certain suicide!" David protested vehemently. "Certainly there are better alternatives...better recourses."

"There is no other choice, David," Elizabeth retorted tightly.

"Look, Liz, this guy has told you where he is. Why not allow the police to handle this? That man you spoke to in the Zone, Macevey, he's a good cop. Why not let him deal with this?"

"David, this man has three, perhaps even four people I love as hostages. You heard Cynara. He's coldly murdered three people at the hotel. I simply can't afford the risk."

Appearing miserable and frightened, Stillman glanced at his old adversary for assistance. "She's right, Stillman. This man will kill without compunction. If he suspects that Elizabeth does not intend to abide by his conditions, he will kill the hostages. She has no choice but to keep this particular appointment."

"Any speculation on what I can expect when I get there?" Elizabeth asked.

Cynara glanced at her old friend and then turned he face to the window, where the first light of dawn was still an hour away. ' _How dismally ugly this city is_ ,' she thought. A fitting place for the grim spectacle that was to follow. "He has the dagger and he has possession of the ones you love. Thus the advantage is entirely his. My guess is that he is going to use the hostages as enticements to have you kill yourself."

Elizabeth's eyes widened...the logic of Cynara's scenario was infallible and the genius of the assassin's scheme undeniable. "What do I do?"

Cynara smirked at David and then moved closer to Elizabeth, putting her hands upon the woman's shoulders. With a curious half-smile, she remarked, "Trust me."

5

The short drive to Cynara's hotel was suffused with a sense of surrealism for David Stillman. In the most blackly perverse of his fantasies, he could never have imagined willingly going anywhere with the creature sitting next to him. For her part, Cynara kept her eyes fixed on the rainy street before her as the darkness gradually relented to a dull, disquieting gray.

His final moments with Elizabeth kept playing themselves out in his head like a repetitive, yet hypnotic circuit. An incredulous part of his mind could not accept that he had allowed her to be taken from him for a third time. More fantastic still was the realization that he had done so at the direction of the creature next to him; an entity he had come to revile above all other things.

"Elizabeth, I'm coming with you," he had declared adamantly.

Simpson had simply shaken her head, her expression declaring that she would brook no discussion or argument. "My world is tottering on the edge of the abyss, David. You are the one thing that I must keep safe. The knowledge that you will be waiting for me will give me the courage to persevere through what is to come. Please go and follow Cynara's instructions. If I survive, I will come to you and we will never be apart again."

Terrified that he would never see her again, Stillman had nonetheless complied. He had kissed her and they clung to each other like two helpless children. He prayed that what he was feeling then was not a sense of finality. Then he was being led away. His last glimpse of her came as she stood gazing pensively out of the window. She appeared vulnerable and lost.

Cynara deftly steered the Jaguar into the darkened parking garage and pulled into her narrow allotted spot. She pulled the keys from the ignition and was about to climb out, when David reached out and gripped her right wrist. Her head snapped back to face him, preparing to be angry. That anger dissipated when she saw the anguished, miserable expression on his gaunt face. "Can she really trust you, Cynara?"

She did not respond for several moments. Then, as a puzzled Stillman gazed on, she reached into the back seat and withdrew a small case. She opened the case and withdrew a dagger. The blade gleamed wickedly beneath the muted lights of the parking garage. She ripped her blouse and the straining fabric of her bra, revealing a flawless left breast. Then she handed the dagger to an astounded Stillman, explaining, "This dagger is the only means by which a mortal can kill me." Taking David's wrist, she guided the tip to a point where the globe rounded past the breastbone. "If you truly believe that I intend to harm Elizabeth in any way, use it on me now!"

Trembling slightly, he gazed into her blazing eyes. She held his gaze steadily, her dark eyes glittering with an alien emotion that he could not read. Finally, his fingers opened and the dagger fell to her lap. He gazed away as she replaced the dagger in its case and pulled the folds of her blouse over her breasts. "I have saved your life and I have offered you mine. Still, if you require further proof to allay your fear that I am still what I once was, consider this; you have captivated the one thing that I love more than anything else in this world and I have allowed you to live. Do you think that the monster that destroyed Semelar would have been so magnanimous?"

David nodded." Please save her. She doesn't deserve to die this way."

Cynara agreed solemnly and led him back to her suite. As he lay down on the bed, attempting to come to terms with his turbulent emotions, she set about the process of making arrangements for his departure.

Listening to her competently handle secretive telephone transactions with nameless agents, he recalled her final exchange with Elizabeth.

"I intend to take up the thread of Mansley's life when this is over. I want you to have everything that I built as Cynara Saravic. If my plan works, you should be able to enjoy my fortune without constant fear of discovery."

Elizabeth had not replied, but her expression had been one of pure gratitude. Stillman could not help but wonder about the implications of this particular arrangement.

When Cynara had concluded the last of her phone calls, she came over and sat in a chair opposite the bed. "Everything is arranged. The package of material you need will be waiting for you at the airport in New York. Between then and now, you must arrange to have a small passport photo taken. You will fly to Bucharest, where you will be met by one of my business agents. He will escort you to Chevru. I can tell you now that the mansion was badly damaged five years ago and has undoubtedly fallen into disrepair. You will have sufficient funds to undertake the necessary restorations. If Elizabeth survives, she will join you in due time, thought it would be prudent if she was circumspect in her coming."

"And if she doesn't?" David asked glumly, loathing himself for his inability not to pose the question.

"In the package, there is a detailed list of the assets Cynara Saravic possesses. They will be yours as a form of reparation for what I've done to you. Hardly adequate, but better than a return to penury. Use them as you will."

"Cynara, I...I..." He trailed off, unable to bring himself to express gratitude to this creature. His hatred for her had been embossed upon his soul. She perceived this and nodded tightly. "It isn't necessary, Stillman."

Snatching up her purse in hands that trembled slightly, she withdrew a large sum of bills and handed them to the man she had once vowed to destroy. "Arrange to leave at once. Buy some clothes at the airport and a decent suitcase. No matter how this bit of nastiness concludes, your days as a derelict are over."

With this, she pivoted about and left the room before Stillman could comment further.

He would never see Cynara Saravic again.

Chapter Thirty One

1

Elizabeth could not watch David leave, fearing that the sight of his departure would rob her of her last bit of resolve. Torpor settled over her like a pall, but she grimly fought to shrug it off. Her entire life had been a comedy of errors that had now come to this tragic juncture. She awaited the prescribed half hour and then exited via the window through which she had first gained access to the hotel. The morning was rainy and bleak, somehow perfectly suited to the task at hand.

The streets near the fringe of the abandoned zone were unsurprisingly deserted. The only traffic to be seen was the purposeful passing of army and police vehicles. She tried to concentrate strictly on the execution of Cynara's plan and not the scheme itself. Everything hinged upon the accuracy of Cynara's assessment. The extravagance of the stakes caused Elizabeth to shudder with apprehension.

She easily eluded the desultory patrol that had been posted at the boundary of the abandoned zone and then carefully jogged along the alley that ran parallel to the main street.

In minutes, she was standing just outside the rusted bard wire fence that ran along the property limits of the abandoned factory that the assassin had designated. The building was a large corrugated metal and iron structure. Fifteen large loading bays were set into the north wall and the only windows in the structure were located some thirty feet above ground level. Despite their height, most of these had been shattered over the course of time. The building look more like a crypt than what had once been a productive place of business. Elizabeth walked along the perimeter of the fence, scanning the building for any sign of occupancy. Cynara had been emphatic in admonishing her that she should run in the event that she noticed any sign of scrutiny from within the building.

Carefully scanning the adjacent buildings, she could discern no sign of life. A glacial calm descended on her then and she thought, "I'm going to die."

She was mildly surprised how readily her beleaguered mind accepted this. In light of the heartache and misfortune that had marked a good portion of her life, she found the prospect of death was neither terrifying nor necessarily undesirable. Indeed, a part of her mind exhorted her to simply accept the assassin's sanction...to simply fall to her knees and open herself to the killing blade that would bring an end to all suffering and misery. Only the thought of those she had come to save sustained her against the temptation to surrender.

Gripping a section of chain link fence in her hands, she ripped it away as thought it were no more substantial than rice paper. If she was to die, it would be so that those she loved might live.

She sprinted over to the building and began to trace her steps back in the direction of the main entrance, where two large sheets of plywood lay strewn before the concrete steps. It was through these doors that the assassin had led his hostages. A massive iron door pitted and flaked by years of corroding rust, stood partially open...a subtle invitation to a lethal dance.

Elizabeth drew a deep breath and strode up the stairs. There was no need for stealth. The terms of engagement had been made perfectly clear. He would be waiting inside and she would come, just as she knew he must. She gripped the edges of the massive door and with a liquid flexing of powerful muscles, ripped it from the frame and cast it aside with ease, watching as it clattered to the fragmented concrete of the courtyard.

The air inside was musty, damp and fetid and the darkness was absolute, though Elizabeth's acute night vision made light unnecessary. The only sound to be heard was the plaintive squeaking and clattering of countless numbers of rats as they scrambled away from the noisy intruder.

"Elizabeth Simpson is here!" she declared, her voice a cannonading roar that shook the walls of the factory. Abruptly, the interior of the factory filled with a harsh yellow light. Elizabeth remained utterly motionless just a few feet inside the main entrance.

The interior of the building had been gutted and anything of value had been long since carted off by scavengers. Even the main support walls had been stripped down to the rusting girders, creating a single cavernous room roughly the length of three football fields. Near the opposite end of the building, Simpson could see that a crude wooden platform had been erected. Without hesitation, she began to stride across the concrete floor, her leather soles ringing purposefully in the hollow factory that had now become an arena.

She stopped some fifty feet from the platform which was surrounded by an opaque black curtain. Still nothing stirred. She glanced about, beginning to think that she'd been duped...led into some manner of unfathomable ruse. The floor was litter with a profusion of detritus; wooden crates, twisted remnants of machinery and the like.

Elizabeth returned her attention to the dais. The black curtain filled her with an atavistic dread. She was positive that she did not want to see what was concealed behind that layer of cloth, correctly surmising that it held the potential to be her undoing.

' _What if Cynara has deceived you? What if her act of concern was a charade_?' The unwanted thought could not be banished by simple denial and kept ringing in her mind like a death knell. If Saravic had indeed betrayed her, it was not inconceivable that she would discover the lifeless body of David Stillman on the other side of that damnable curtain.

As though attuned to the flow of her thoughts, the curtain suddenly parted with a whirl of material.

Elizabeth gasped in horror and took several steps toward the dais, when a disembodied voice admonished, "Not another step, Ms. Simpson."

Simpson complied without thought, searching for the source of the command. Failing to locate the speaker, she returned her attention to the tragic spectacle on the dais. It filled her with sinking despair.

"Oh God, Cassie, Contayza...I'm so sorry," she murmured, her voice thick with grief.

Both women stood at the center of the dais, their arms bound painfully above their heads...stretched until they were forced to stand perfectly upright. Their wrists were bound with thin strands of wire that cut cruelly into the soft flesh. Rivulets of blood dripped languorously down the length of both women's arms. Elizabeth realized that should either relax from their postures of perfect military erectness, the bite of the wire would increase tenfold. Their agony could scarcely be imagined and was further compounded by the indignity of their nudity.

Cassandra's head lolled upon her shoulders and she shifted her gaze to Elizabeth. Her grey eyes were narrowed into slits of misery and showed no sign of recognition of the woman before her. Contayza still had not stirred. Elizabeth could discern the slow rise and fall of her swollen breasts and breathed a sigh of relief. Clearly, she was unconscious. She was slumped forward and now Elizabeth understood that her full weight was borne by the tiny strands of cutting wire.

Shackled by helplessness and nearly insane with rage, Elizabeth's eyes turned a brilliant, iridescent orange and she laid her head back and howled like a banshee.

A shadow flashed above her and she glanced up to see a figure float by, high in the lattice of rafters. As though suspended on a carpet of air, the figure began to descend towards the dais, executing a graceful somersault and coming to ground directly behind the two captive women so that they were imposed between himself and Elizabeth.

She growled again, her lips twisting away from her teeth in a feral smile. The man was large and powerfully constructed. His piercing blue eyes regarded her with a malevolent intelligence. His face was an amalgamation of cruel angles and ridges which still managed to be handsome in a crude fashion. His expression was one of supreme confidence and subsequent derision...the expression of a man who understands that the advantages are exclusively his.

"Ms. Simpson, how good of you to come. I appreciate you promptness." In his left hand, Gerchnau brandished an army issue knife, which he ran over the curve of Cassie's naked hip. "I suspect that your companions appreciate your promptness more than I. If we bring our business to a rapid conclusion, their torment can be brought to an end."

"You cowardly bastard, why not come out from behind two defenseless women and face me like a man," Elizabeth rasped thickly.

Gerchnau merely laughed. "Hardly a fair contest, Ms. Simpson, considering what you are. I am a mere mortal...for the time being at least. Unfortunately for you, I am not so easily compelled by my male ego."

He ran the blade over the flat of Cassie's abdomen. The girl stiffened, but made no sound. Elizabeth could not help but be amazed by the girl's mettle and strength. She was clearly frightened, but refused to be cowed by her fear. "What a fine young jewel she is," Jurgen remarked teasingly. He clamped a large, callused hand over Cassie's up thrust left breast and caressed he nipple with his thumb. Elizabeth could see a flinty, distant gleam steal into the girl's eyes. She had seen this expression before on the night the girl had tried to kill her on a deserted stretch of highway. In this state, it was possible that the girl might react rashly and get herself killed.

"Cassie, stay calm," Elizabeth implored. To Gerchnau, she spat, "Let's dispense with the games...what do you want?"

Gerchnau smiled and released the girl's breast, though his knife remained poised near her sternum. "Before we begin, there is something that I'd like to return to you."

She followed his gaze to the shadows and felt a force emanate from the man, who was clearly endowed with formidable telekinetic ability. An instant later, something rose from the gloom and slowly drifted toward the immortal. It took only a single glance to recognize that it was her ceremonial dagger. Her blazing eyes flicking briefly to Gerchnau, she demanded, "Did you kill my son?"

"No, thought I did leave him with a permanent reminder of our meeting. When I left him, he was very much alive."

Elizabeth extended her hand and the emerald encrusted haft slapped into her palm. She examined it, quickly confirming that it was the dagger of her turning. Its presence confirmed the accuracy of Cynara's assessment. Elizabeth prayed that it was an accuracy gleaned from perception and not participation.

She glanced back to Gerchnau. The expression of mirth had vanished from his face, replaced by a malefic glare that was truer to his nature. "No doubt, you're a perceptive, intelligent woman. I imagine that you now deduce the basic premise of my plan...a simple exchange really. Your life for theirs."

"I am to trust you that you will release them once I've killed myself?"

The proximity to victory had made the normally tacit German expansive. "Despite what you might think, I am not a casual, psychotic killer...a serial killer. I see killing as a means to an end...not an end in itself. Murder is a highly effective tool and not to be treated lightly. These women are a form of leverage. I will gain nothing by killing them and so I won't...just as I did not kill your son. Unless, of course, I am forced into a situation where it becomes necessary."

"If I refuse?"

Gerchnau offered her a grin of horrifying intensity. "I will begin by slowly cutting this girl to shreds. I have become quite proficient in prolonging life under such circumstances. Her suffering will be immense."

He stepped over to the unconscious Contayza. "The Gypsy whore is a special one. I was there to personally witness the nature of her power when she dispatched an acquaintance of mine. Perhaps you recall Yuro Petru?"

The name evoked a host of memories, but Elizabeth deliberately said nothing. Gerchnau merely shrugged. "No matter...the girl is merely sedated; a wise precaution in light of what she can do."

Jurgen put his arm around Contayza's belly, the tip of the knife dimpling her flesh just above her pubic bone. He ran his other hand over the swell of her belly, which was drum head hard. "If the girl is not sufficient inducement, then I will cut this bitch open. Would you like to see your grandchild, Ms. Simpson?"

For emphasis, he quickly drew the knife upward, inflicting a superficial wound along her belly. Elizabeth hissed and then cried, "Stop! I'll do what you want."

The German released Contayza and stepped back, his ice blue eyes gleaming wickedly. "Time to write the final chapter of this story. Now, remove your blouse. I want to see the dagger disappear into flesh...no illusions...no deceptions."

Elizabeth complied, slowly removing her blouse and bra. Gerchnau nodded his admiration of the bronze perfection of her full breasts. "Such an exquisite creature. To destroy such flawless beauty is a tremendous shame."

From somewhere beyond the great bank of windows there arose a harrowing cry, rife with agony. Both Gerchnau and Elizabeth turned toward the sound. It did not come again and after a time, Jurgen returned his attention to Elizabeth. "It seems that we find ourselves in the midst of a great celebration of death. This place of wither is an appropriate backdrop against which to play out this dark drama, wouldn't you agree, Ms. Simpson."

Elizabeth did not respond. Her lovely blue eyes had assumed a dispassionate cast. A part of her mind had expected that this encounter would culminate in her death and with Cynara's continuing absence, it seemed that self-immolation was unavoidable. A smile formed on her sensuous lips then...one of enormous beauty and contentment. The prospect of oblivion free from the constant shackles of betrayal, pain and grief drew her like a siren song. Slowly, she raised the dagger, reversed it and pressed it into the firm flesh in the deep valley of her breasts.

When she spoke, her voice was mechanical and bereft of inflection. "Before I give you your tawdry victory, tell me what you personally expect to gain from this?"

"Very well, I suppose you're entitled to that much," Jurgen intoned affably. "As remuneration for sending you to the hell you deserve, I will inherit your immortality and your estimable powers. Though sentimentality has rendered them ineffective, the desperation with which my sponsors wish to kill you informs me that those powers must be virtually limitless."

Elizabeth nodded tightly. Gerchnau smiled and uttered a humorless laugh. "As you die, I want you to consider one amusing bit of irony. When Yuro Petru arranged for my release from a Romanian prison, he did so with the intention that I would kill the very woman whose murder I have been enlisted to avenge."

"Even more ironic still is the fact that the woman whose murder you aspire to avenge is very much alive," declared a voice from somewhere high above them."

2

Cynara left Stillman, unable to fathom her odd burst of sentimentality at the last. True, she had inflicted unknowable damage upon the man and should be remorseful for that alone, but her sorrow went deeper than simple remorse for vile deeds. In his face there had been such misery and anguish, and quite suddenly she realized that her judgment of the man had been harsh, even cruel. He was a mortal after all and thus helpless and vulnerable by his very nature, but his love for Elizabeth was unconditional and strong. To her chagrin, she found it difficult to harbor enmity towards the man, something that had been her stock and trade when she had been at the apex of her dark power.

She drew a deep, quavering breath, shaken by this latest sign of her spiritual reformation. Sympathy, empathy for others...these things that had once been totally beyond the limits of her sensibilities, now had the power to wrench her heart and guide her actions.

She retraced her route back to the edge of the abandoned zone, drawing the car to a crumbling curb less than one hundred yards from where a team of national guardsmen had been dispatched to monitor movement into the disputed area. It would have been a simple matter for Cynara to change forms and elude the pair, but she decided that the car would be required to take Cassandra and the Gypsy out of the area, should she manage to find them still alive.

"Restraint, Cynara," she warned herself as she slowly rolled the vehicle toward the pair.

The guardsman inspected the Elegante and then drifted over to Cynara, who rolled down her window and beamed a disarming smile. The nearest guardsman, a boy of no older than twenty-one, marched over to the vehicle and trying to affect an authoritative voice, declared, "This area is under marshal law, Ms. I'll have to ask you to move your vehicle."

Feigning confusion, Cynara slowly produced a map of the city. "I'm sorry, officer...I've gotten totally turned around somehow." She chuckled apologetically. "I could never read one of these things...I don't suppose you could help me?"

The guardsman needed only one glance at that lovely face with those large, luminous dark eyes and all thoughts of vigilance vanished. He bent forward to inspect the map just as Cynara struck him with a short, chopping blow above the right cheekbone. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the pavement in a boneless sprawl.

Quickly, she opened the door and stepped over the fallen soldier. The other guardsman shifted his gaze from his fallen cohort to the statuesque beauty, who seemed somehow familiar. Retreating a step, he raised his rifle. Cynara shook her head, never pausing for a second. "Look, I have to get into the abandoned zone and you can't stop me. I'm not threatening national security. My business is strictly personal, so why not come over here and make this painless. It'll be like falling asleep and you'll wake up with no ill effects."

Shaking perceptibly now, the guardsman sighted along the barrel. "Stay the hell away from me. I'll shoot if I have to."

He knew the threat was idle. He couldn't envision a circumstance that would prod him to shoot this unarmed beauty. He blinked and she was suddenly behind him, effortlessly tugging the rifle from his hand and casually tossing it to the pavement. She gripped his collar and he slid to his knees. "Please don't kill me!"

She smiled reassuringly, her thumb applying a steady pressure to his neck. In mere seconds he slumped to the pavement. She gathered him up and carried him back to the Jaguar, loading both he and his comrade into the trunk of the sedan. Then she quickly collected the rifles and threw them casually into the back seat before heading west into the zone.

After locating the factory, she pulled the Jaguar into a narrow side alley and jumped out of the car. The area appeared deserted, but she forced herself to expend several critical moments reconnoitering the surrounding buildings for any sign of scrutiny.

She spotted the figure hovering high above the ground, peering intently through the huge windows that dominated the north wall of the derelict building. As she suspected, the assassin's effort was being carefully monitored by a demon. She closed her eyes and focused upon the molecular structure of her body. In the next instant, she was ascending quickly and silently through the gray dawn.

Engrossed by the drama being played out within the walls of the deserted factory, he failed to perceive her approach until it was too late. Gliding up behind the hovering demon, Cynara clamped her left hand over his mouth to mute his scream and drove his sharp-nailed right thumb directly into his right eye. It burst with a liquid pop and black icor spewed over her hand. She released him with a contemptuous shove and he plummeted to the ground, falling in a tangled jumble of rusted machinery.

She pounced on him with the speed of a hawk, hauling him to his feet. Dazed, the demon swung blindly at his assailant, but Cynara caught his hand and bend each finger backward. There was a rapid succession of sickening snaps as each bone shattered. Still refusing to succumb, the man lashed out and caught Cynara in the stomach. She fell backwards in a tumble and he attempted to crawl away, clutching his broken hand to his chest, trying to comprehend exactly what had befallen him.

Cynara leapt lithely to her feet, her eyes blazing wickedly. Glancing quickly about, she pulled a long metal bar from the tangle and stalked quickly after her quarry. Coming abreast of him, she raised the bar above her head and drove the rusted spear through his left thigh, effectively pinning him to the asphalt. His harrowing cry rose to the indifferent heavens. Cynara quickly cut it off by driving her fingers deep into his bulging throat.

She knelt beside him and brought her lips to his ear. "Listen carefully...I require information. You're going to provide it for me or I'm going to cut you into twitching pieces. I trust that I've demonstrated both the ability and the willingness to make good my threat?"

She twisted his head to face her. His one remaining eye regarded her with a mixture of incredulity and terror. Slowly, he nodded. Cynara smiled. She doubted that Elizabeth would approve of such tactics, but there were times when brutality was the only acceptable method. "Now, what is the nature of the plot against Elizabeth?"

She released his throat and he began to gag. She patiently waited for the fit to pass. He lay there gasping, but she discerned that he was gathering a burst of telekinetic energy. She savagely jerked the bar to and fro while smashing his face into the wet pavement.

"Enough! Please!" he shrieked and he stopped. "The mortal will attempt to prod the woman into suicide. If he succeeds, her power will be his. If he fails, it has been decided that we will take a more direct approach in dealing with her."

"A sanction squad?" Cynara demanded.

"True demons!"

Cynara inhaled sharply. True demons were the fallen angels who had been exiled to hell along with the dark father after his fall. Their power was limitless and Elizabeth would stand no chance against them. They had been relegated to hell by the ancient covenant. If sent forth, it could well signal the onset of the final apocalyptic war between good and evil.

"Do you realize the consequences of dispatching the ancients?" Cynara murmured her voice fraught with an apprehensive incredulity.

"Apparently he deems the situation to be worth the risk," the demon gasped. Appalled, Cynara sat back on her haunches.

"You're her, aren't you...Cynara Saravic?" the demon rasped. Cynara gripped his chin and pulled his head skyward, while kneeling on the small of his back. He cried out as his torso bowed at an impossible angle.

"That bit of deduction has just come at the price of your wretched life, Hun," she snarled. What had just been her right hand passed before his right eye and he uttered a shrewish cry of negation. From her wrist there protruded a curving scythe, which she drew across his throat in a swift, carving motion.

Still grasping the severed head, Cynara stood upright and turned around. She stopped abruptly, her eyes widening.

Nathaniel Simpson stood watching her...his fine-featured face contorted in revulsion. It suddenly occurred to her just how horrifyingly primitive she must appeared, spattered in icor and clutching a disembodied head in her right fist.

Never taking his eyes from her, he began to back away. Cynara set the head aside and raised her arms in a gesture of placation. "Nathaniel, don't run. As terrible as this looks, it isn't what it seems."

He stopped, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "How do you know who I am?"

Despite herself, Cynara could not restrain the devious grin that spread across her face or the teasing tone that entered her voice. "Why Nathaniel, we've spent many intimate moments together...especially in Brasov."

Simpson recoiled as if he'd been physically struck. His face had gone the color of aging chalk and his head shook in negation. "It can't be."

Slowly, she began to stroll towards him. Nath stopped, knowing that flight was futile. Of all this possible twists this dark drama might have taken, this was the one he would never have imagined. "Where is Elizabeth? Who is the man you just killed?"

"Elizabeth is in there," she replied, inclining her head towards the building. She held up her hand to display the black gore. "Quite obviously, that was not a man. He was a demon. His task was to oversee the destruction of your mother. I've stopped him and I intend to stop the others who are attempting to kill her."

"I don't believe you," Simpson declared flatly and turning quickly, began to march towards the front of the building.

Cynara was beside him in an instant, gripping his collar and spinning him roughly about to face her. "Constantly having to proclaim my new found virtue is growing tiresome and aggravating. I don't particularly give a fuck if you believe me or not. Your mother is in there, as is your wife. If you barge in there, one or both will die. I don't have the time or inclination to convince you I'm sincere. You're going to do precisely what I tell you or your precious Elizabeth is going to die."

She laid the flat of her palms along the sides of his head and forced him to gaze into her eyes. Instead of guile, he saw only grim determination and though he could scarcely credit his words, he asked, "What is it you want me to do?"

She offered him a radiant smile. "A simple kiss."

Before he could pull back, she pressed her lips to his, her hands coming around his throat, caressing one instant and then squeezing the next. Nath tried to pull away as black flowers bloomed before his eyes. In the next moment, he slumped forward into her powerful embrace and she laid him gently against the building. Quickly, she retrieved her shock prop and began to ascend into the air, hoping that her intervention would not come too late.

3

Both Elizabeth and Gerchnau glanced up to see the speaker drift slowly down from the rafters. Elizabeth fixed Cynara with a baleful glare, but the immortal merely returned a reassuring grin. Then her attention shifted to the assassin.

Jurgen had moved behind Cassie and positioned the blade across her carotid artery. When he spoke, his voice was furious and tight. "The terms of our arrangement were perfectly clear. If you did not come alone, I would kill both the hostages."

The taller intruder shrugged apathetically. "Kill them. It matters not a whit to me. They mean nothing to me."

Jurgen's glance shifted from the intruder to Elizabeth and then back to the intruder, his harried expression announcing his realization that he had lost the element of control. "I'll cut her head off and then start on the other."

"Again, they mean nothing to me," Cynara declared with an indifferent shrug, but stopped nonetheless, knowing that pressing a desperate man into an apparently hopeless situation could often have tragic consequences. She wished to manipulate her quarry so that he would react precisely as she intended. "Watching you kill them would be a rather interesting preliminary to the main event, so to speak."

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, his face contorted into a mask of unadulterated hatred.

"As I said, I'm the woman you aspired to kill in Romania. That fool Petru had no real conception of what I was. You do, though that knowledge will avail you nothing. Oh, by the way, I have a small token of my animosity." As she'd approached, Cynara had held her right hand behind her back. Now she produced the demon's head and threw it to the concrete where it rolled to the foot of the dais with a series of dull thuds. "Anyone you recognize?"

Jurgen stared at the disembodied head with its mouth twisted into a permanent rictus of agony, and shook his head numbly. "What do you want?"

"A settling of accounts, of course...you attempted to kill me and it's only fair that I reciprocate."

"Cynara, I don't want them harmed...is that clear?" Elizabeth intoned gravely.

"Then kill yourself, bitch!" Jurgen roared, spittle and perspiration flying from his lips. Sweat flowed freely down his brow, threatening to occlude his vision. He absently brushed it away with his left hand. The slightest slip in concentration would prove fatal against these creatures. Frantically, his mind raced to contrive some way to extricate himself from this debacle. The one question that kept buzzing in his mind with stroboscopic regularity was...how could they not know that Saravic was alive?

"If Elizabeth kills herself, there will be nothing to prevent me from tearing you to pieces. Perhaps the salient reality of your situation is becoming clear to you, Jurgen. No matter how you shuffle and cut the cards, you will be dealt the death card."

Grasping the intrinsic truth of this, Jurgen's eyes narrowed into angry slits. "If I'm going to die, then I might as well take all the company I can."

Cynara raised a long index finger. Even as Elizabeth watched her play her perilous gambit, she could not help but be impressed by the aplomb with which Saravic conducted herself. Her demeanor was one of absolute confidence. Elizabeth knew that, should the situation be reverse, she could not have carried the moment with such skill and grace. A part of her mind attributed this adroitness to a brutal indifference to those who were at risk, but Simpson refused to succumb to that perspective. Cynara retreated a step, subtly easing the oppressive tension a notch. "Then it seemed that we have reached an impasse. Still, I believe that there is an equitable solution to our little standoff. If you're willing to listen. Given your situation, I don't see that you have a choice."

"Say what you have to say, bitch!" Gerchnau rasped, pulling the knife tighter against Cassie's exposed throat. The girl dared not react, knowing instinctively that the slightest move could prove fatal."

Cynara's eyes flared. "Be kind...I'm a woman of limited patience." She glowered at Jurgen, but refused to speak until she had mastered her anger. "Despite all that's happened, I must confess that I admire you. Your cavalier audacity is laudable. Such temerity and insidious craftiness! Your scheme is ingenious and most likely would have succeeded had it not been for one unforeseeable factor; me. This alone entitles you to a reprieve of sorts."

"I'm listening," Gerchnau growled, though a speculative light had replaced his expression of trapped belligerence.

"I propose that you face Elizabeth in single combat. If you triumph, you gain not only your life, but the powers you covet. Is this not an equitable solution to this dispute?" Cynara glanced at Elizabeth, who nodded tightly. Face impassive, she slid the dagger across the floor to the dais.

Jurgen slid his gaze from one immortal woman to the next, trying to discern some manner of trickery. His gaze settled upon Cynara. The ice blue eyes were alight with mistrust. "What's to stop you from intervening or killing me, even if I succeed?"

"My solemn vow," Cynara quipped with a dazzling smile. Then she shifted her gaze to Elizabeth, who blanched upon seeing the expression that spread over the lovely face. Saravic's face was alive with a hatred the magnitude of which Simpson could not recall ever seeing before. Could such loathing be feigned? "As I've said, I've come for a settling of accounts. This whore betrayed me and came close to killing me, forcing me to abandon my own body. If you do not kill her, the pleasure will be mine."

Jurgen considered this for several moments, watching the two women carefully. The enmity that radiated from Cynara was very nearly palpable in its intensity.

A feral grin dawned on his face like a dark sun. He prodded the girl forward until he was only a few feet from the dagger. Swiftly, he jumped down and swept it up in one fluid movement. All of this elaborate deception was unnecessary, he reasoned. Armed with the right weapon, Jurgen was confident that he could kill anything. For all of its power, this creature was weak, shackled by sentimentality. Expertly holding the ceremonial dagger out before him, he advanced several steps in Elizabeth's direction.

Cynara's conciliatory grin became a primal snarl. She moved like a flash of lightening, imposing herself between Gerchnau and other woman. She had no intention of allowing the assassin to come anywhere near Elizabeth with the dagger. Wide-eyed, Jurgen wheeled around, knowing that he had just committed a fatal error in judgment. Sporting a sinister grin, Cynara started towards him. "This is going to be an immense pleasure."

"Cynara, he's mine!" Elizabeth declared in a flat voice fraught with authority.

"Why take the risk?" Cynara protested, but saw at once that the intractable gleam in Elizabeth's eye would brook no argument. Cursing in consternation, she said to the German, "It seems you're going to have your opportunity after all."

With this, she performed a deep, deferential bow and stepped aside. Elizabeth regarded her and nodded slightly. "If he succeeds, you are to honor the agreement, Cynara."

Cynara shook her head in disgust, but promised her compliance. Elizabeth extended her arms to Gerchnau and invited, "Come then, bury it right here!"

She placed a long index finger in the deep valley between her bare breasts. Gerchnau, his face set in intense lines of concentration, started forward, deftly switching the dagger from one hand to the next. He approached Elizabeth bent slightly at the waist, while she remained absolutely stationary.

He had come to within three feet when a vague shape sailed out of a dark corner of the building and crashed heavily into the German. The force of the blow knocked him to the wet floor, sending the dagger clattering towards Elizabeth. Slowly, she bent down and retrieved it.

Cynara had ascended the dais and tore the wire restrains free with her bare hands. Then she laid the two women gingerly on the floor. When Elizabeth quickly regained possession of the dagger, she breathed a sigh of relief. That relief soon turned to mortified horror, when Simpson walked over to the fallen man and threw the weapon at his feet.

Jurgen looked up at her, clearly shocked, snatched up the dagger and scuttled away. "You are a fool woman."

Elizabeth merely gestured him forward, her face inscrutable. Jurgen nodded slightly. "Two can play that game, cunt."

In the next instant, the air was alive with a hail of wood and concrete shards and rusted wire. They swept over Elizabeth like a breaking storm. Gerchnau uttered a guttural cry and swept in after them.

Elizabeth absorbed the strikes without so much as batting a lash, her concentration fixed firmly on the approaching German. When it seemed inevitable that he would bury the lethal blade in her heart, she lightly stepped aside, catching his wrist and throat in a vice-like grip.

He flailed at her with his free hand and his feet, but the blows had no efficacy. She absorbed them without reaction. Finally, she drove her knee into his abdomen and he collapsed in a gasping convulsion.

She gracefully extended her right foot and nudged the blade towards the fallen German.

Intrigued, Cynara watched. There could only be two explanations for this show of bravado. Either she was deriving an uncharacteristically perverse glee from toying with the assassin or she intended to commit suicide.

"Damnit, finish him now, Elizabeth!" Cynara implored. Simpson merely glanced at her and said nothing. Still clutching his side, Jurgen staggered to his feet. His blue eyes were pinched with pain and a dawning comprehension of just what it was he had undertaken to do. He glanced at the blade as if it was something ineffably vile that he could not throw aside.

"Come," Elizabeth instructed simply. Gritting his teeth, the German exploded forward, lashing out in a frenzy of blows. Elizabeth smoothly dodged each, retreating until her back was pressed against the unyielding concrete wall. Grinning a horrible grin, she invited, "Now, kill me!"

He hesitated for a brief instant, his eyes fixed on a spot between her luscious breasts. It beckoned to him with the promise of every aspiration he had ever harbored. He surged forward...only to find her gone. Elizabeth rose straight into the air as though shot out of a cannon. In the next instant, she landed lithely behind him, landing a succession of crushing blows to each of his major joints.

Jurgen howled in agony, writhing on the floor and unable to move any of his limbs. His shoulder, knee and elbow joints had all been dislocated by the concussive force of Simpson's blows. His limbs protruded from his body at bizarre and sickening angles.

He lay flat on his back, gazing up at the ceiling of the factory. Then her face, a portrait of cold, emotionless beauty filled his view like the opening of the heavens. With deliberate slowness, she stepped over the fallen assassin and sat down on his chest. With a rather whimsical twist of her lips, she began to run the blade of the dagger over his face, carefully tracing the ridges of his rugged countenance. "How different it must feel to be cast in the role of the victim. I suspect that it is a role you haven't played very often...if ever."

She pressed the blade slightly deeper into the flesh of his left cheek, drawing forth a thin line of blood. Jurgen inhaled with a sibilant hiss. "To be helpless...to be vulnerable; these things are possibly the most terrifying states we can imagine. The predator knows nothing of this fear...only the exhilaration of victory. Reflect on this moment well."

Then she was gone, leaving him to gape after her in utter amazement. She strode across the floor, her heels ringing in the absolute silence.

"Elizabeth?" Cynara inquired, but Simpson ignored the other immortal, instead stooping down to retrieve her blouse. She could feel the weight of Saravic's stare upon her back and turned to confront it. "I have done what was necessary...I will not kill a helpless man, Cynara."

"But I will!" rasped a maddened voice from behind the pair. This was punctuated by a nerve-wrenching scream from somewhere on high. Gerchnau uttered a harrowing cry of terror, his blue eyes bulging from their sockets. The two immortals spun around in time to see a large section of lattice support beams tear free from the ceiling and plummet onto the paralyzed German.

Elizabeth closed her eyes against the carnage, and then turned to see a furious Contayza Prowzi standing shakily on the dais. Her torso was blood spattered and her arms hung uselessly at her sides, but her face was livid with rage. She seemed scarcely to be aware of her nudity. Simpson stole a brief glance at Cynara who was regarding the Gypsy with what might have been admiration.

Elizabeth began to cross towards the dais when an invisible force struck her in the chest and hurled her backwards. "Don't you dare come near me!" Contayza raged, her voice cracked and wavering on the edge of hysteria. The prospect of another confrontation with her daughter-in-law was more than Elizabeth could bare and she could feel tears welling up in her eyes.

"Look at what you've done to me. All of this misery and suffering is your doing. Goddamn you, why couldn't you stay where ever you were. You selfish bitch, you had to come here and ruin our lives." Her angry reproach degenerated into a fall of tears and gasping sobs as she sagged to her knees on the dais. Elizabeth remained where she was, paralyzed by the incisive sting of Contayza's barbs. She glanced down at the dagger, tempted by its cold enticement. Then it was pried from her hands. She gazed up at Cynara, who merely shook her head firmly before crossing over to the weeping Prowzi. She knelt beside the fallen Gypsy. "Let me see yours wrists."

Cynara reached out to the Gypsy, who hissed as though scalded by the touch and pulled away. "Never! Never will I trust you!"

"But I will. Now let her see your hands, Contayza." All heads turned in unison to see Nathaniel standing in the shadows. At the sight of his haggard face, Contayza meekly offered her hands to Cynara, her eyes never leaving his as he approached her.

Elizabeth was the first to move. She ran to Nathaniel and swept him up in her arms, tears of relief and joy spilling from her eyes. "Thank God...I thought you were dead."

He glanced at her and smiled, though pain resonated from the edges of his grin. Is color was pallid and his eyes appeared pinched. A large welt glared at her from his jaw. "You're badly hurt."

"It's nothing serious." Nath said dismissively, but Elizabeth pulled back his jacket and slowly undid the buttons of his shirt. Once revealed, the extent of his mutilation sickened her. She raised a hand to her mouth and turned away from the horrid branding, feeling the silent sting of its accusation. Nath button his shirt and enfolded her in his arms. "Only God can carry the burden of blame for every evil in the world, mother. Whatever else you might be, you are not that." She turned back to him, forcing a grim smile. "My son the philosopher."

"Not a philosopher," he contradicted gently. "Just a man who is willing to accept the truth."

She laughed and drew him into an embrace, relishing his warmth and proximity. Turning her lips to his ear, she whispered, "Be kind to her, Nath. She's suffered horribly."

She pushed him away and propelled him in the direction of his wife, who was watching him shyly. Cynara moved away from the woman and went to comfort Cassie, who sat alone near the rear of the dais. She rocked herself with her eyes closed tightly, like a victim who can scarcely credit that they've survived some horrible ordeal. Cynara took the girl in her arms and began to speak to her in low, soothing tones.

As Simpson watched the two pairs, it suddenly occurred to her that she had become the outsider. Cassie had forged a bond with Cynara and Nath had accepted his wife as it was only fitting he should. She had become extraneous...a presence who could only complicate and bring sorrow. If she was to emerge on the other side of this juncture in time, she implicitly understood that there would be no further place for her in any of their lives. Watching the four, she felt bleak and utterly alone.

"Is it finally over?" she heard herself ask of no one in particular. Still holding Cassandra, Cynara stood and guided the girl over to Simpson. "I wish I could say that it was. The man, whose head I employed to such dramatic effect, was not really a man at all. His purpose was to monitor the mortal assassin's actions. If he failed, this demon was to summon a squad of demonic assassins to complete the sanction. Fortunately, I preempted the summons, thus buying us some time to prepare." Elizabeth sagged perceptibly at the thought of further conflict. "Who will be sent?"

Cynara could not entirely disguise her apprehension. "Demons of the upper tier. We are to them as mortals are to us by comparison."

"Then it's hopeless," Elizabeth observed, her tone lifeless and resigned. Cynara gripped her wrists and began to shake her vigorously. Fiercely, she exclaimed, "Damn your pessimism. It's never hopeless until you're dead. For all of your intellect, that is something you have yet to learn. Your David Stillman is waiting for you and you speak of surrender like a complacent sheep."

Elizabeth bowed her head and accepted Cynara's scorn with a nod. "I'm sorry. Constant conflict and fear are two companions I've never cared to live with."

"Perhaps there is a way that you won't have to," Cynara intoned and raising Elizabeth's chin, indulged in a long kiss, unmindful of the startled glances this garnered.

When she finally broke the kiss, she demanded, "Now, are you prepared to listen?"

Chapter Thirty Two

1

As Cynara detailed her plan, Elizabeth's astonishment and respect for the immortal grew geometrically. It was a scheme of temerity and pure genius, fraught with a plethora of dangers. Still, Elizabeth recognized that it was her only chance of survival. Cynara finally concluded her summary and awaited Elizabeth's reaction. "You're as crafty as a fox."

Cynara beamed her breathtaking smile and handed Simpson the detonator case and her ceremonial dagger. "Remember, the timing has to be impeccable. If they suspect even the slightest hint of deception, everything will be lost."

Elizabeth's lips twisted into a sudden frown. "There are thousands of people in the abandoned zone. For the sake of saving myself, I can't sacrifice them."

Cynara nodded in exasperation. "Saint Elizabeth. Don't worry; I'll insure that this place is evacuated. Your smitten admirer, Captain Macevey is going to provide you with one final service. There is little time, Elizabeth. We've got to begin now."

Nathaniel listened to the two immortals discuss the particulars of Cynara's outrageous plan as though they were speaking of something as mundane as shopping. He could scarcely believe he was standing in the presence of Cynara Saravic without the accompanying sense of dread and loathing that had always declared her proximity. Still, unless his senses had failed him entirely, he could detect no guile about Cynara's demeanor. Her concern for Elizabeth seemed motivated entirely by love. The concept that a demon could be spiritually reformed staggered Nath, but he could find nothing to refute what his senses insisted to be true. Cynara Saravic had been reborn and Nath suspected that she might be the only entity capable of protecting his mother.

Softly, he interjected, "There may be another cause for concern." The two immortals regarded him questioningly and he began to relate the details of what he had witnessed on television before beginning his final search for Elizabeth. "There are literally thousands of them and the authorities seemed disinclined to stop them. I guess it's pretty clear they're crazy and obsessed with the notion that you're some manner of satanic emissary. Until they've obtained their pound of flesh, it's unlikely they'll be deterred."

"Ingram has the pivotal role in this," Cynara declared flatly, her eyes narrowing in loathing. "You should have allowed me to deal with him as I saw fit."

Simpson did not respond to the criticism. Instead, she turned to Nathaniel. "Nath, this is all the more reason why you have to take the two women and get out of here. If Ingram's horde find you with me, I doubt they'll be discriminating."

The old pain seared Elizabeth's heart. Their life had been nothing more than an agonizing farewells and protracted, wistful absences. In cold consolation, a small voice informed him that this would probably be the last.

Nath nodded gravely and Elizabeth linked his arm in hers and led him over to the two waiting women. They were watching her with an air of expectancy as though they believed she might hold the power to set everything right with a mere wave of her hand. "I know that I've hurt you all badly, and though that was never my intention, that does nothing to alleviate the suffering you've been subjected to because of me. I can, however, assure you that there will be no further grief incurred on my account."

Now, Elizabeth addressed them individually...these three who had comprised the greatest portion of her world. No one present had any doubt that this was a moment of final farewells. "Contayza, perhaps you've been hurt the most by my return. I swear that your family will never be jeopardized by my presence again. Your daughter will grow to be an extraordinary woman, one who will fill both you and Nathaniel with immense pride and happiness. I hope the day will come when you can think upon me with forgiveness and fondness."

Contayza merely bowed her head and nodded tightly. Elizabeth sighed and turned to Cassie, drawing the girl into a tight embrace. Nath had managed to find the women's clothes. Studying the girl, Elizabeth thought that she had never appeared to child-like and vulnerable. When she gazed up at Elizabeth, her lovely grey eyes glistened with tears. "Cassie, I promised that I would take care of you and try to give you back some of the things that had been stolen from you. Life has a way of imposing obstacles in our path and making a mockery of the most solemn of vows. Karnalla will take care of you. She is a special woman, just as you are, so I want you to promise me that you'll also take care of her."

Cassie nodded and quickly turned away, moving off to suffer her grief in isolation, just as she always had.

Finally, Elizabeth turned reluctantly to Nathaniel, who was watching her with those placid blue eyes, now alight with the pain of loss he knew was soon to come. How beautiful he was, this child of hers. His love for her had never waned through all of the tribulations and terrible ordeals which he had suffered because of her imperfections. Despite its absolute necessity, the weight of this final farewell crushed down upon her heart like the cumulative sin of the ages.

She opened her arms to him and he came willingly into her embrace. "Oh, my beautiful boy, this is worse than the dagger's bite, because I know I will live to suffer it again and again."

She wanted to convey so much more, to convey her love in words that would have enough passion and force to last a lifetime, but in the end she could only cling to him.

"I love you, Nathaniel," she whispered.

"And I love you," he managed. He pushed her to arms length and gazed at her, trying to imprint this final image on his mind's eye. She pulled herself erect and offered him her most radiant smile, which he returned.

Then he was gone from her, leading the two women to the waiting car and whatever future waited beyond this desolate place and moment in time.

Elizabeth stared after him, tears spilling over the ridges of her cheek bones. Regret, colossal and agonizing bore down upon her in that moment. Had Cynara not been there, it was probable that Elizabeth would have completed the task that the assassin had attempted to coerce her into. Yet, like the steadfast anchor, Cynara was there. She silently came to stand by the grieving blond and pulled her into her arms, holding her until the flood of tears abated.

When Simpson had regained enough composure to push herself away, it seemed that she was oddly diminished. Cynara placed a finger beneath her chin and raised her face. "The one thing about grief is that it is a commodity that we can horde like dark treasure. When this is over, you can lash yourself with all the bitter recollections you wish. For now, you must find it in yourself to act."

Elizabeth drew a tremulous breath and absently wiped the tears from her eyes. As was usually the case of late, Cynara was correct; action was preferable to wallowing in self-pity. "Cynara, this battle is mine to fight alone. As I've said to the others, I don't intend to be a liability. You have been granted a second life...and there is Cassandra to be considered. Without your intervention, I'd be dead a dozen times over. Whatever debt you owed me has been repaid in full. Please go."

Affronted, Cynara drew herself to her full height, gazing down on Simpson with lovely eyes that blazed like celestial fire. "Love has no quota, Elizabeth. There never comes a point where you can declare that you've done enough and walk away. If love demands that you give again and again, then you do. You're the one who imparted that particular lesson, Elizabeth, so don't expect me to ignore it when it is needed most. You need me! Quite frankly, your chances of survival without my assistance are dismally slim. If I walk away now, then every sacrifice I've made up to this point would be rendered meaningless. Can you not understand that I love you, absolutely and unequivocally? I can almost accept the fact that the feeling may not be requited and that you would rather while away your years in the arms of a flawed mortal, but I cannot accept the fact that you would die because I abandoned you. As I've said, just you try to drive me away."

Elizabeth mustered a smile and drew Cynara into an embrace. They remained this way for several moments, basking in the warmth and comfort of each others body. The spell of the moment was broken by the faint strains of chaos which spilled through the shattered windows of the derelict factory.

Cynara held Elizabeth at arms length and the two exchanged knowing glances. The tumult could only have one source...the mad prophets army was drawing near.

Cynara's brow knitted in consternation. "This is a mere nuisance...a ploy designed to hold your attention until the Dark Father's demons come for you."

"I'm going to go out and meet them," Elizabeth declared resolutely. "I'll show them that I'm not a demonic entity. That should defuse their hysteria."

Cynara shook her head in fervent disagreement. "Bullshit! These people are insane. There is no other generous way to put it. Gregor Ingram is convinced that he is a new age prophet come to lead the righteous out of the spiritual hinterlands. Do you think he is going to renege simply because you declare yourself to be of higher virtue and that he has misjudged your character? Ingram sees your immolation as a symbolic act; the first step in the great cleansing of America. This is what the demons have inculcated into his head and nothing is going to disabuse him of that notion. You told me the story of Zavora Asari. If she was here, she would attest that everything I've said is the unequivocal truth. If Ingram came upon Mother Theresa, he would have her burned at the stake. His madness requires a sacrificial pawn and he will accept nothing less."

Sighing as a sign of concession, Elizabeth considered this for a moment. "What do you suggest I do?"

Cynara inhaled sharply, knowing the reaction her advice was bound to evoke. "You have to react under the assumption that this mob is composed of religious lunatics, who have no compunction about killing whatsoever. You also have to accept the reality that you will never divest them of the notion that you're some type of evil princess. That being the case, I would recommend that you do everything in your power to convince them that this is precisely what you are."

Elizabeth frowned, not entirely digesting what the other immortal was suggesting. Cynara produced an exaggerated sigh. "Give them a display of power that will send them scurrying back to their parishes and church yards with their tails between their legs."

Simpson stiffened. "I will not slaughter these people."

Saravic spread her arms, her voice rising. "Nor do you have to. I'm merely talking about putting the fear of God...or more correctly, the devil into the demented bastards."

Elizabeth groaned and averted her eyes, but Cynara refused to be put off. "There is no viable alternative. What I'm suggesting is a way out. My scheme could well succeed on sheer audacity alone. These zealots are a distraction...a sacrifice to engage you while the true danger converges upon you. When they come, there will be no discriminating. These demons will gleefully slaughter everything in proximity to you. If you don't do something to drive them away, you'll be killing them through inaction."

The cold logic of this was irrefutable and Elizabeth could see no other choice but acquiesce. Cynara raised her hands to the heavens. "She sees the light, by the Gods! Give them a show that they'll never forget, Elizabeth. Drive them out of the abandoned zone."

Elizabeth nodded grimly and hung her head. "Their victims, Cynara. Even Ingram, in the prison of his megalomania, is probably a victim."

Cynara handed Simpson the detonator device, while waving her hand in impatient dismissal. "Victims, yet who has suffered the consequences of their actions? You are a victim of my evil? I was a victim of my nature and someone else's manipulation. In a world full of victims, someone has to survive and I say it might as well be us."

There was a shallow, superficial truth in Saravic's argument, but Elizabeth understood that, in the final analysis, such facile rationalization had led the world to its present state of despair. Still, she lacked the energy to debate, hoping that the dark lady would come to that comprehension in her own way and time.

"What will you do now?" she heard herself ask distantly.

"I'm going to find Macevey and convince him that he must evacuate the area. One way or the other, I'll be back within forty minutes." She gestured towards the case that dangled, forgotten, in Elizabeth's right hand. "I've set the timer for automatic detonation, but our choice of the moment will have to be impeccable."

With this, Cynara spun around and sprinted towards the main exit. Watching her go, a sudden sense of cool detachment enveloped Elizabeth. She had divorced herself from every tie that had bound her to the world. All of those whom she loved were now safe and in light of the grim prospect she now faced, Elizabeth suspected that this might be the best resolution that she could now hope for. Somewhere, David Stillman would be waiting for her, but she could not allow herself to contemplate that particular road into the future. She consigned herself to the hands of fate then. If she was to survive, then what would be would be. If not, then it was probable that the bitter trickster, destiny, had merely mocked her with a glimpse of splendor that she was never meant to taste.

Driving these thoughts from her mind, Elizabeth carried the detonator to the center of the factory floor. There, she sat cross-legged with the device positioned before her, waiting for the inevitable arrival of her enemies.

2

The procession wound its way through the rain-drenched streets of Seattle, moving stolidly forward like a welling tide.

Gregor Ingram marched at the forefront of this great juggernaut. Whatever misgivings he had once possessed were now gone. In their place came the certitude that his was the path of the righteous. The army of the wicked came to block his path, but when it became evident that he would not be forestalled by threats of violence, they had simply parted and allowed him to pass like the Red Sea before Moses.

The comparison was an appropriate one Ingram believed. While Moses had led his people to the promise land, Ingram had been set to the task of ejecting the miscreant from the shores of the new Eden.

The thought caused him to smile and tighten his grip on the Bible which he clutched in his right hand. In his left, the prophet brandished a machine pistol, but the Lord's tools and workings were as varied as the stars in the heavens.

The great procession wound its way through the streets, seemingly oblivious to the flock of news helicopters that tracked its progress like vultures. Ingram did not have a precise notion of where he was going, but he knew that he was being moved unerringly towards the witch. He could sense her malign presence just over the horizon of his consciousness. He found that the prospect of being led did not disquiet him. Indeed, it suffused him with a certain warmth and comfort. There was a great battle looming just ahead. Many would die in sacrifice to divine service, but Gregor was certain that he would be warded. When the miscreant was laid low, he would be the one to raise its severed head and proclaim victory.

Soon now. Very soon.

3

While Gregor Ingram was possessed of an implacable faith, the men whose objective it was to contain him were embroiled in a bitter dispute over how best to achieve that aim.

"These are American citizens for God sake!" Colonel Jonas protested, his face ashen. Watching him so openly distraught, Macevey could almost feel sorry for the man. The colonel had been trained to relegate a clearly defined enemy to the status of inhuman entity...something that had been easy to do with the lawless gangs that had held power in the zone. This situation was drastically different.

As much as he might have felt a small degree of pity for the man, Macevey could not help but remark, "Your good American citizens are responsible for the deaths of twelve police officers. I don't think we can simply ignore that fact."

Jonas glowered at Macevey and turned away in disgust. The man at the head of the conference table banged his hand down on the scarred wood and rasped, "Dammit, this is not a tawdry points scoring session. I need a decisive method of resolving this crisis before it explodes."

The Governor glared at Macevey, a tiny vein pulsing in the center of his forehead. Stuart regarded him flatly for a moment and then shrugged. "I don't engage in point scoring exercises and I certainly don't need this particular aggravation in light of everything else that has happened today. If you're in any way displeased with how this operation is being handled, I would be more than happy to resign and allow someone else to take over."

Macevey had offered his head with calm deliberation and merely sat staring at the Governor, who appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Franklin Lawland placed a restraining hand on Macevey's forearm and rose to his feet. "We've all been under a great deal of stress, Governor. This latest development is a complication that I'm sure none of us would have preferred to deal with. Nonetheless, we have no choice in the matter. Captain Macevey is merely addressing the salient realities of the situation. These people have displayed a flagrant disregard for the law and for human life. They have showed no compunction about using lethal force to achieve their goals. We have to deal with them."

The governor almost lurched to his feet. "It's not such a simple matter, Franklin. We're in an extremely delicate position. A lot of people, a frightening large amount of people, believe in what this Ingram is doing. If we move in there with force, we are going to be perceived as oppressors and Ingram as a martyr. The fallout will make what happened in the aftermath of Waco seem like a church picnic. We have to take this guy down in a way that clearly casts him in the role of the villain."

"That could well be impossible, Governor. The people who support Ingram are zealots and not necessarily stable. I doubt that there is much we could do to change their perceptions of the man...or of us, for that matter." Lawland pointed out.

"Then what do we do?" the politician demanded, though his truculence had given way to a numbing dismay.

It was Macevey who spoke. "The first thing I would suggest is getting those damned news choppers out of the air. Giving Ingram a public forum for his insane quest is not helping anyone. We can use whatever pretext we want and deal with the fall out later."

The Governor considered this for a moment and finally gave his reluctant approval. Miserably, he nodded for Macevey to proceed.

"Then we follow the Colonel's advice...for a time." Stuart added quickly.

Jonas glanced quickly at Macevey and then took up the thread of his dialogue. "Clearly, this group of crazies is headed for the zone. In a way, this is fortuitous because they can only do a limited amount of damage there. Look, this Ingram seems intent on finding this ' _emissary_ '. Obviously, this figure is conjured up from his religious dementia. Somehow, he's convinced his following that this figure is very real and they've fallen behind him like holy warriors. We've all heard of the religious lunatics who go and live in retreats or on mountaintops waiting for the end of the world. Eventually, when the day of the supposed apocalypse comes and goes, most of them simply shake their heads and go back to their pathetic lives. Something tells me that this situation may be similar. When they don't find this emissary, I make a bet that they'll drift away from Ingram like rats deserting a sinking ship. Once he's been discredited, we can take him into custody with the minimum amount of fuss."

The Governor's face broke into a smile and even Lawland concurred that the theory had credence. There was no symbolic figure to be put to the torch and so it only followed that Ingram would eventually be made to look ridiculous. The general atmosphere of tension that had been prevalent during the discussion, eased by several degrees. Only Stuart Macevey did not share in this new found optimism.

As the group began to discuss specific ways to bring about a bloodless resolution to the crisis, Macevey lapsed into a brooding, worried silence. He, alone, understood that Ingram, despite his religious megalomania, was not vainly pursuing a phantom. The object of his mad obsession was all too real, but Stuart could find no way of sharing this knowledge with the other men assembled in this room. Macevey knew that Ingram would surely locate Elizabeth Simpson, though how he had come by this certitude, he could not explain. These men, with their hard-boiled pragmatism and cynical perspectives, could never accept a creature of Simpson's ilk. She was far beyond the intractable limits of their sensibilities and thus Ingram would find Simpson and there would be a thunderous confrontation the form of which Stuart could not begin to imagine.

Stuart was trying to construct some way of conveying these fears without sounding totally ludicrous when his aid appeared at his side and requested that Macevey join him in the outer office. The Captain could feel the weight of Lawland's inquisitive gaze on the side of his face, but refused to meet it. He excused himself from the meeting and followed his aid into the next room.

"Has something happened?" Macevey inquired, trying to maintain a neutral tone.

The aid frowned, clearly perplexed. "I'm not certain, Captain. There is a woman outside who insists that she must speak to you. I informed her that you were in a meeting, but she refuses to take no for an answer, claiming that a lot of people were going to die if she didn't receive your immediate attention."

"She requested to speak to me personally?"

"Yes. She's waiting outside. She said that she would speak only to you."

"Very well," Macevey nodded absently and left the trailer. The September morning was rainy and dreary with lumbering clouds scudding across the sky like harbingers of perpetual misery. For a moment, Macevey thought that he had fallen victim to a joke. The trailers had been set up in an open end rectangle and the impromptu courtyard was deserted save for the guardsmen assigned to the step of each.

Macevey approached the nearest guardsman and inquired, "Did you see a lady waiting here?"

The trooper nodded, droplets of rain falling from his helmet. "She was here just a moment ago, speaking to one of the officers. When he went inside, she turned and headed down that alley."

Intrigued, Macevey thanked the soldier and headed after his mysterious caller. He found her leaning casually in the doorway of an abandoned tenement building.

"It seems that fate has thrust us together once again, Captain Macevey," Elizabeth's tall and decidedly lethal companion remarked softly. Her lovely eyes were fastened upon him and her exquisite face appeared tight, almost severe in the gray light.

"Where is Elizabeth?" Macevey inquired. "Gregor Ingram and his rabble are coming for her."

"You're a perceptive one, Macevey. I trust you haven't shared this little secret with your cohorts?"

The couched threat was not lost upon Macevey and he merely shook his head. The woman smiled. "Very good, Stuart. Elizabeth knows precisely who her enemies are and she is preparing to meet them. Don't fret over her, Stuart. You have concerns of your own."

"What do you mean?" Macevey demanded sharply. "What did you mean when you told aid that a lot of people were going to die? If you're speaking of Ingram and his lot, I..."

Cynara's eyes flashed. "I don't give a shit about that sanctimonious prick and his misguided idiots. If Elizabeth slaughters them all, this country would be well served."

"I...I don't understand?" Macevey stammered. This creature's volatile nature, with its constant threat of violence, unsettled Macevey.

"Of course you don't," Cynara chided and lashed him with a spate of condescending laughter. "What do you suppose I am, Stuart? Do you have the slightest notion?"

Macevey considered the question thoughtfully, just as he had for the better part of the last day. Now, as had been the case then, he could produce only an ambiguous answer. "I couldn't really say with any degree of certainty. I...I know that you're not human, but beyond that, I couldn't even speculate."

Cynara pursed her lips. "Perhaps that's just as well. A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, especially to the wielder. Let it suffice to say that Elizabeth and I are supernatural entities. She has the power to burn Ingram and his mob to cinders, though her noble nature would not allow her to resort to anything so vulgar."

"Would yours?" The question slipped from his lips before Macevey realized that he had any intention of posing it.

Cynara's answer came in the form of a predacious grin. "We have no fear of mortals, but Elizabeth is not without her enemies and they are bent upon her destruction. This miserable patch of dirt is going to be the battle ground. I'll be succinct, Macevey...within forty minutes, this entire area is going to be reduced to rubble."

Stuart's jaw unhinged. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"The former masters of this wretched area were industrious little bastards. Perhaps they anticipated your coming. Perhaps they knew that Elizabeth would find her way here. The reasons are immaterial. What matters is that they planted explosive devices throughout the entire zone. These devices are controlled by one single detonator and within forty minutes they will be activated and this entire place will go up in a cloud of smoke and fire. Before that time comes, things are going to come to earth that were never meant to be seen by any living human being...at least, not before the day of the apocalypse."

She regarded him flatly and spoke in a voice devoid of all emotion. "You have forty minutes to evacuate the abandoned zone of all personnel of they will all die."

Macevey searched her eyes for some sign of either madness or guile. Seeing none, he shook his head in dawning horror. "Good God, you have no notion what you're asking. There are thousands of people dispersed through a one hundred square block area."

"Then I'd suggest you don't waste time vacillating. Forty minutes, Macevey. After that, anyone within the zone will be nothing more than a memory." Cynara turned and began to walk away from the beleaguered policeman. Macevey raised a trembling hand to his brow and turning on unsteady legs, head back to the C and C trailer.

"Macevey," Cynara called on impulse, and the policeman turned around to find the tall beauty regarding him with a speculative expression that caused him to shudder. "When the dust has settled from this misadventure...I might be tempted to find you...you interest me. I think you'd provide me with an interesting diversion." With this, she uttered an indecipherable laugh and vanished into the alleyway, leaving a bemused Macevey staring after her, his heart hammering in his chest. After a moment, he mounted the steps and hurried into the trailer.

Every head swiveled to meet him as he burst into the conference room. His pallor declared the worst even before he gave it voice. "Gentlemen, we have a serious problem."

Chapter Thirty Three

1

Elizabeth remained seated in the center of the factory floor for an interminable length of time, reflecting on the twists and turns that had brought her to this particular juncture in her life. Her life had soared to euphoric heights and plummeted to depths of utter despair and through all of it she had managed to cling to some sense of humanity, tenaciously refusing to surrender her civility. The faces of those whom she had loved and lost came floating by in a surrealistic procession, bringing with them a host of poignant memories that lanced her aching heart.

Nathaniel, Contayza and a granddaughter whom she would never know...all of them irretrievably lost irrespective of what might transpire here on this wicked day. Even faithful Cynara, her constant companion, would be lost to her from this day forth. Theirs would be a painful but necessary separation. She could not risk dragging Cynara, and by association, Cassie into the pit.

Only David remained...her one tenuous link to her old life. She conjured up his image as a talisman to ward against what was to come.

Gradually, she became aware of a low rumbling issuing from the concrete beneath her. It was barely perceptible, but undeniably there and slowly growing. Gazing around, Elizabeth could see that even the walls were shaking ever so slightly.

' _Ingram and his mob_ ,' she thought, but immediately dismissed that notion out of hand. The rumble was the harbinger of approaching puissance, like the guttural rumble of vast machinery, not yet seen but felt in every fiber of the being.

The death squad was converging upon her.

She felt the truth of this in the pit of her stomach, but was surprised to find how little trepidation this truth evoked.

Atop the rumble, there came the strident cries of an approaching mob...sometimes chanting, sometimes singing god's praises and crying out for holy retribution.

Calmly, Elizabeth flipped open the detonator case and studied the control panel. Then she climbed to her feet and prepared to confront her accuser.

The teeming mass of humanity surged into the factory lot, literally pushing over the rusting chain link fence. They quickly surrounded the factory like a flooding river. Ingram stood at the fore, his gleaming cross raised high to the heavens, beseeching God to provide them with the fortitude and strength to persevere against the evil one.

For a moment, an expectant silence enveloped the mob, every eye turned to Ingram for guidance. "The demon cowers in the shadows when the Lord comes forth to lay her low. We are his hammer and we will not be stayed by false compassion. Warded by his love, we will strive into the devil's lair and pull it, kicking and screaming into the holy light of day and stake it out before the eyes of God."

With this rather ostentatious declaration, Gregor thrust the cross out before him and started forward. He had taken no more than three steps when the bank of windows exploded outward all along the length of the northern exposure. Glass rained down upon the tightly packed throng like deadly hail, raising screams of agony and terror. The front ranks pivoted around and retreated in blind panic and soon the yard of the factory was littered in crushed and broken bodies.

Piteous wails arose from the badly injured, many of whom were women and children, but no one moved to give them comfort.

Gregor Ingram refused to retreat. He stood with his back to the calamity, seemingly oblivious to the carnage around him. "Your parlor tricks will not frighten me!" he cried. "Nor will they deter me from his divine purpose."

A thunderous explosion rumbled through the morning air and soon pieces of concrete and steel sheeting were tumbling down upon the courtyard, as the factory roof erupted like a volcano. A single figure shot forth from the interior, hovering in the sky above the derelict factory. She seemed to float in the air like an apparition, though there could be little doubt that she was tangible flesh. Her eyes blazed a brilliant, malefic orange as she spread her arms and began to drift toward the prophet.

When it spoke, its voice was a thundering bass that shook the adjacent buildings. "You have come to test your faith. So be it. I shall gladly accommodate you."

"I do not fear you," Ingram challenged, his religious dementia occluding his reason. Raising the bible and the cross, he pronounced, "I am sanctified by these."

Elizabeth turned her gaze upon the raving preacher, and summoning the face of Zavora Asari, marshaled every ounce of vitriol that her soul possessed. Though many had fled, still thousands hung near the perimeter of the factory yard, waiting to see if Ingram would find the wherewithal to vanquish the demon. Beneath this tumult, growing like a disease, Simpson was cognizant of the vibrations in the earth. She had to drive these people away before this insanity assumed disastrous proportions.

Her gaze swept across the yard, sickened by the spectacle of death that she had wrought. There were as many as two hundred bodies littering the rubble strewn concrete. Offering a fervent prayer that something good would come of all of this, Elizabeth extended her arms and closed her eyes.

Ten argent spears of flame leapt from her finger tips, streaking through the open air like lightening. The bolts came together and then spread yet again, multiplying to form a web with one strand for each of the unmoving bodies that littered the ground. Soon each was ablaze in a spectacular argent pyre that raised cries of horror and revulsion from Ingram's disciples.

"Kill her!" Ingram rage, his face contorted with fury. Spittle flew from his lips, reminding Simpson of a rabid dog. Many of his followers turned and took to heel as the silver flames consumed the last of the bodies, but still many others refused to flee. Heeding the command of their prophet, the raised their weapons in unison and filled the air with a river of led.

The bullets struck Elizabeth in such profusion that she was literally cast from the sky, plummeting back into the factory like a meteorite, leaving a three foot deep crater in the concrete floor.

Hysterical shouts of triumph greeted Simpson's fall. Ingram raised his hands to the heavens in a gesture of supplication and then charged up the stairs and into the abandoned factory, meaning to stake the holy cross in the demon's iniquitous heart.

Encouraged by their apparent success, his followers tentatively drifted back into the blackened yard, wading through the detritus of their dead companions.

Their euphoria soon congealed to bitter disbelief when the demon literally burst through a brick wall, holding the unconscious Ingram aloft in one hand as thought he was no heavier than a sack of cotton.

3

The command and control trailer of the Seattle Civil Authority had been plunged into utter chaos. A bewildered state Governor sat slumped in a chair, his slack features resembling those of a catatonic bomb victim.

Throughout the room, harried communication technicians blared the same frantic message again and again. "C and C command orders that all civil and national guard units withdraw from the zone of operations immediately. Any equipment that cannot be transported at once should be abandoned where it sits"

Jubilant operatives listened to the message in growing incredulity and dismay and upon realizing that the orders were legitimate, quickly organized and fled. Within ten minutes of Macevey's incredible announcement, a dozen helicopters were airborne and braying the same message to anyone who might be away from their vehicles.

Within minutes, the great social victory had turned into a harrowing flight for survival.

Stuart Macevey sat alone in the conference room, still attempting to come to terms with the debacle that ' _his_ ' operation had become. The session that had followed his dramatic declaration had been surprisingly free of resistance.

Colonel Jonas had regarded Macevey with an expression of utter disgust and demanded, "How can you be so sure that this information is legitimate?"

Macevey had lashed him with a withering frown and retorted, "In light of the kind of ordinance that we've discovered are you willing to take the risk that is isn't?"

The discussion had terminated then and there as an ashen-faced Governor had ordered an immediate withdrawal. Macevey offered a silent prayer for small miracles.

Franklin Lawland slipped into a seat across from Macevey and fixed his Captain with a gaze of hard appraisal. "This is more than a simple coincidence, isn't it?"

Macevey's expression remained impassive, but inside his heart began to thunder. "I don't think I understand exactly what it is you're asking?"

Lawland offered Stuart a tight, humorless grin that never touched his glacial blue eyes. "Oh, I think that you do. I understand that you ordered a private vehicle to be given safe conduct out of the area of operations last night."

Stuart offered his superior a wan smile. There was little point in trying to deny what was obviously a well known fact. Lawland was a keenly intelligent man who would not be deceived by shallow fabrication. "You're right. It isn't a coincidence that she came to me. This all fits together into one bizarre puzzle. Even I don't understand more than a tiny portion of what's happened here. I think there can be little doubt that our operation was compromised and the gangs knew we were coming. Beyond that, I doubt very much that you would believe a word of the story I would tell you."

Something flickered in the icy blue depths. "You would be surprised what I would be willing to accept." Lawland climbed heavily to his feet, his store of seemingly boundless energy now all but exhausted. "You know that this is the end for you, Stuart. It's unfortunate that someone has to be the sacrificial lamb. The jackals will demand it, but I will do everything in my power that you come out of this with everything you can get from the department."

Stuart nodded, but said nothing. Franklin clapped him on the shoulder. "When this is over, I'll want to hear your tale, Stuart...no selective editing, no omission...just the unadulterated truth. Whatever you tell me will stay between us. Can you promise me that much?"

Stuart promised that he would just as a communication officer popped his head into the room. "We're ready to move the trailers, Captain."

Macevey nodded and followed Lawland out into the rainy morning air. The communication officer shut down the system just seconds prior to receiving transmission from a frantic guard captain positioned in the north eastern quadrant of the abandoned zone.

4

Captain Myron Strickland had served in the National Guard for fifteen years, but nothing in his catalogue of varied experiences had prepared him for the events that he had witnessed thus far on this rainy September morning.

Strickland had been delegated the task of shadowing the Ingram procession as it wound its way through the city of Seattle. He had been explicitly instructed not to interfere with or deter its movements unless the mob displayed an inclination toward violence or unless they posed a direct threat to Guard units. Even then, they were not to react without prior authorization.

When it became apparent that the procession intended to enter the zone, Strickland had ordered that his contingent split into two groups. Each group would shadow the procession as it moved into the abandoned zone, one to the north and the other to the south, employing a block of derelict buildings as a buffer so as not to antagonize the zealots.

A religious man himself, Strickland dreaded the possibility that he might be called upon to use deadly force against fellow Christians. He prayed that this would be resolved without gunfire. Gazing into the eyes of his fellow Guardsmen, he saw that it was a sentiment shared by many.

At last, Ingram and his followers had reached his apparent destination. They had assembled around the perimeter of an abandoned factory. Strickland ordered his contingents to stand down and had led a small group to an adjacent building to monitor Ingram's activities. Strickland could discern nothing that might have attracted the throng to this particular location. Then insanity had erupted like a tempest bursting from the roiling gray skies.

The ensuing chaos both baffled and horrified Strickland, but when he tried to call central command for guidance, his tale was met with impatient dismissal. Instead, he was instructed to mobilize his troops and withdraw from the area of operations.

Stunned, Strickland had looked to his subordinates to find identical expressions of bewilderment dawning on every face.

"Holy fuck, what is that thing?" Someone exclaimed. A figure hovered above Ingram's mob, argent flames shooting from its fingertips to form a spider web of death. Panicked, Ingram's followers began to retreat. In a moment, the air was filled with the cloying stench of burning human flesh.

Torn between duty and compassion, Strickland again attempted to raise central communications, just as the multitude opened fire and the hovering entity plummeted into the interior of the factory. The harried communications officer's reply was curt, but beneath the irritation, Strickland could sense a measure of barely contained terror. "Captain, your orders are to withdraw from the order of operations at once."

"Central Comm. I have open warfare going on here. As many as two hundred of Ingram's people have been killed by...by...something. They are being slaughtered. I'm requesting permission to intervene. I repeated; I am requesting permission to intervene."

There followed a charged silence and then another voice filled the airwaves. "Captain, this is Colonel Jonas. You have been given explicit orders. You have eighteen minutes to evacuate your troops from the zone of operations. Is that clear, Captain?"

Strickland slammed his fist down on the stone parapet and uttered a vile epithet. What was perfectly clear was that the government was abandoning Ingram and his poor, misguided bastards to whatever it was that was killing them. Morosely, Strickland replied, "Perfectly, Colonel!"

Then he reached back and hurled his two way radio into the garbage strewn lane. Turning to his next in command, he instructed, "Begin moving the units out. Tell them that they have to be clear of the area of operations in fifteen minutes."

"What about you, Captain?"

Strickland clutched his rifle to his knees, his defiant gaze meeting his lieutenant's. "I'm staying. Now get the hell out of here."

The lieutenant hesitated, seemingly about to say more, but then turned on his heels and was gone. Strickland inhaled deeply and focused his field glasses on the factory yard. Alone now, he could suddenly feel the low frequency vibration that seemed to emanate from the concrete, brick and wood of the building beneath his feet. Sweeping his binoculars over the surrounding area, he detected subtle sign of disturbance everywhere.

His first thought was an earthquake, but surely that was ridiculous. There was not a violent heaving, only a low, even rumble that threatened to turn his bowels to jelly. Through a subconscious progression of logic that he did not understand, Strickland came to a disconcerting conclusion...something was coming.

The thought struck him with the impact of a freight train. Something was coming, the low gut-wrenching vibrations lending a hint of enormity and inevitability to its impending arrival. It would not be dissuaded by pleas for mercy or cries for reason.

Another thought occurred to Strickland then...this thing that was coming, it would not be friendly.

5

Oblivious to the perils pressing in upon them from every side, Ingram's disciples mounted the crumbling steps through which their prophet had just plunged. They surged forth cloaked in a mantle of holy euphoria.

That jubilation quickly congealed into gibbering horror when the abomination burst through the brick wall, holding the unconscious Ingram aloft life a sack of grain. The thing's ungodly orange eyes burned with malefic delight. The air about its head crackled and burned with puissance, adorning the demon with a dark crown.

When Elizabeth emerged into the dull gray light of the factory yard, she released her grip on Ingram. To the terror of the throng, Ingram did not merely collapse to the wet tarmac. Instead, his slumped body began to drift slowly upward.

Ingram's disciples came alive with cries of negation and religious dread. Slowly, they began to scuttle away from the preacher as if his proximity was an invitation to evil possession, corruption and worse.

To Simpson, such vulgar displays of power were deplorable, but she could feel time slipping away with the fleetness of mercury. She had to set the mob to heel and she had to do it at once.

She did not relish the prospect of venturing into the snake pit of Ingram's mind, fearing that his madness might somehow be infectious. Steeling herself, she imposed her will on the preacher's body and opened his eyes.

6

Watching all of this from the relative safety of an adjacent rooftop, Strickland could not help but wonder if he was dreaming. The ubiquitous vibration, the wicked choreography of macabre madness being enacted before his eyes and his own sense of primal dread...these things were the stuff of nightmares.

Ingram opened his eyes and those close enough to see reacted in a torrent of wails and moans. Gone were the pale, watery blue eyes that had characterized the preacher's face. In their place were two hollow pits from the depths of which gleamed two points of orange light.

He raised his arms in an awful gesture of encompassment and roared, "Go home. This fight is not yours to win."

Abruptly, twin beams of argent energy leapt from his eyes, sizzling just inches above the heads of the mob. The sight of their prophet possessed by a demon finally broke the collective nerve, just as Elizabeth had anticipated it would. A shudder of revulsion ran through the crowd, and turning as one, the mob commenced to scramble wildly out of the yard.

To dissuade any individual acts of gallantry, Elizabeth propelled Ingram's body slowly forward, harmless silver flame leaping from his eyes as he went. With a touch of amusing irony, Simpson noticed that, in their haste to be gone, many of the ' _faithful_ ' had dropped their bibles and other religious artifacts. They littered the crumbling tarmac like abandoned pieces of hope.

Captain Strickland watched all of this like a man walking in a somnambulist's trance. The sight of the preacher being defiled by this filthy abomination incited a black rage in his heart. Deftly, he raised his rifle into firing position and centered his cross hairs on the demon. Reciting a Psalm as an incantation, he then pulled the trigger.

The report cut through the wet air like a scythe. The bullet caught Simpson in the right eye and blew her back through the hole in the wall and into the impenetrable shadows.

Ingram collapsed on the wet ground with a meaty thud, fracturing his jaw on impact. His body thrashed on the dirty ground as though his nerves were being lashed by shooting charges of electricity.

Strickland stood up and raised his binoculars into position for a clearer view of the carnage. There followed a liquid tearing sound, a nauseating crunch of bone and finally a stupefying numbness. Strickland glanced down in numb horror to see his intestines accordion out over the side of the building. In the next moment, he was tumbling head over heels to the ground some thirty feet below.

With her right hand dripping with blood and gore, Cynara watched him fall, deriving an inexpressibly dark pleasure from the sound his body made as it shattered on the unyielding concrete.

"There's a devil in you still," Cynara declared softly and uttered a mirthless chuckle.

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway of the factory, gazing around for her assailant. Cynara never fully understood what compelled her to duck down, yet in that single moment of abandonment, she realized that there was nothing more that she could do for Elizabeth Simpson. There was a measure of shame in that moment of uncoupling, but not so great that Cynara could not succeed in compartmentalizing it. Saravic's percipience informed her that Elizabeth's moment of judgment was at hand, and unless she was willing to be consumed in the same vortex, it was time to distance herself from the other immortal.

"Goodbye, darling Elizabeth," she whispered softly, her flesh losing solidity even as she uttered her final farewell. In the next instant, an eagle flapped its majestic wings and lifted into the rainy sky.

7

Somehow, Gregor Ingram managed to regain his feet and stood glancing around the factory yard in a state of total disorientation. The pain in his mouth was a knot of white agony. Try as he might, he could not recall how he had come to be in this desolate place. Worse still, he found that he could actually recall very little of what had befallen him since the night he had met with his inner circle in his Atlanta head quarters. He recalled received a mysterious box earlier that day, but beyond this, everything that followed was lost in a distorting haze.

How much time had elapsed since then? How had he come to be in this unfamiliar and terrifying place that reeked of death?

He could produce no answer to either of these questions, but some deeper instinct warned him that this inability to remember was a cause for gratitude.

He became cognizant of another's presence and staggered around to see a woman regarding him sharply from the steps of an abandoned building. The woman, like this place, seemed vaguely familiar, but again he could not say precisely how.

Gregor blinked and she was suddenly standing next to him, though they had been separated by only thirty yards only moments before. There was something cold and judgmental in her intense gaze as thought she was seeking some critical piece of knowledge from the light in his eyes. Slowly, she raised her right hand and laid the flat of her palm against his shattered jaw, which was immediately suffused by pleasant warmth. When she withdrew her hand, the pain was gone and the bones completely knit.

"Where...where am I?" he stammered. "Why do I know you?"

Elizabeth could almost pity the man. The demons had deserted him and now he would be left to face the consequences of actions that were, in truth, not his to claim as his own. Kindly, she replied, "That isn't important, now. What matters is that you leave this place as quickly as possible." She pointed along the alley that led out of the abandoned zone. "Run Gregor! Go quickly and don't stop until your legs will carry you no further."

He continued to stare at her for a moment and then, sensing that her urgency was warranted, turned and sprinted down the alley after his followers.

Chapter Thirty Four

1

The truth is a malleable commodity, often shaped by perception and self-interest. It is subjective and as a consequence, subject to change from individual to individual. As to what actually transpired in the city of Seattle on that late September day, the accounts range from earthquake to clandestine government treachery. Only a handful of people had any real inkling of the nature of the bizarre events that led to the destruction of what was commonly known as the abandoned zone and even their understanding was ambiguous at best.

Of all the oddities that unfolded during that rainy autumn day, the following details were rooted in irrefutable fact. At least eight hundred people perished in the zone, though that estimate may be appallingly conservative. The majority of these were followers of Gregor Ingram, the demented leader of the Revisionist Church. When the survivors were asked to explain how their comrades had met their end, the accounts again skewed into the fantastic and the confusing. Whatever had befallen Ingram's children, it had left them in a state of distracted disorientation. Most of them could not even recall how they had come to be in the State of Washington much less in the middle of a virtual apocalypse. The one hundred square block area that the city and state had passively allowed to slide into lawless anarchy was leveled to the last building, though how or why, no one could speculate with any degree of authority.

Near noon on that fatal day, a black cloud arose from the Pacific, plunging the west end of the city into utter darkness. Not long after, the abandoned zone erupted in a brilliant ball of fire that laid it to utter waste. Beyond this, the rest is the stuff of imagination.

Like the small Washington community of Semelar some twenty five years before, Seattle had been engulfed by a tragic disaster that would yield no logical explanation. Thus, were fact has failed, myth must prosper.

2

Disoriented and falling beneath a pall of growing apprehension. Gregor Ingram ran wildly through the deserted, garbage-littered back alleys of the abandoned zone, feeling like a man who has awakened to find himself in the midst of a Kafka novel. He could sense understanding beating at the edges of his conscious mind...an enlightenment that would provide a solution to this disquieting riddle in which he had become embroiled. Instinct warned him to ignore this insight if he wished to survive this horrible ordeal. Always a pragmatist, Gregor did precisely that and applied himself to the task of running, though his legs trembled with the effort and his lungs screamed for surcease.

Somewhere to the east, there came the sound of terror entwined with agony, barely audible above the incessant rumble that shook the earth beneath his feet. Pausing briefly, he decided to investigate, partially motivated by the need to know that he was not alone in this nightmarish place.

Pushing himself flat against a grimy wall, he rounded a corner to find himself peering along a length of a narrow service alley. It required only one quick glance to determine the source of those harrowing shrieks and cries. Several hundred people had been fleeing down the alley when something had pounced upon them like a threshing machine unleashed upon a field of wheat. Bodies, both large and small, were flung roughly into the dull gray air, where they burst into blinding silver balls of flame, falling into the midst of the others like gruesome human torches.

The panicked throng parted before the dervish, revealing a dark wonder that caused Ingram's breath to seize in his chest. This purveyor of death appeared to be a twisting vortex of pure silver flame. Lethal bolts of lightening arced out of its midst, immolating anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its path.

Despite the merciless efficiency with which the entity had dispensed death, it demonstrated no interest in pursuing those fortunate enough to leap clear of its path. Instead, it appeared intent only on clearing a swath through this perceived obstacle.

Suddenly, a mortifying though bloomed in his mind, one that caused Gregor's heart to thunder. ' _It's come for you, Gregor_!'

That was preposterous, of course. He had no part in whatever dark drama was unfolding in this hellish place. True, he had come to be in this desolate wasteland with no recollection of how or why, but he could envision no twist of circumstance that might have brought him into contact with the incredible monstrosity that was rapidly converging upon him.

"Run, Gregor!" Even as he spun around and attempted to sprint away, he realized that the voice of admonition had been his own.

Ingram ran like a man possessed with the terrible whine of his pursuer echoing in his ears. He twisted left and then right, racing recklessly along labyrinth-like alleyways and still the thing followed, steadily narrowing the distance between the pair.

A darkened lane loomed up on the left and Gregor plunged into it without slowing. Behind him, he could clearly hear the entity round the corner into what turned out to be a narrow walkway between crumbling tenements. It cast a brilliant argent glow that lit the narrow confines of the walkway in harsh silver light.

The light illuminated the truth of Ingram's grim predicament. He had entered an enclosed walkway that terminated in a twelve foot high stone wall. Howling like a banshee, Gregor threw himself at the unyielding brick and made a desperate leap for the top. His fingers closed on nothing and he tumbled heavily to the cracked concrete.

He lay on his side, gasping painfully as his lungs fought for precious air. Through the veil of his exhaustion and terror, Ingram was aware of the approach of his pursuer. It approached slowly, confident that its quarry was cornered and helpless. Gregor mustered the courage to roll over and push himself to his knees, not wanting to die without gazing into the eyes of his murderer.

The appearance of the entity evoked a strangled cry from the fallen prophet. The body was statuesque and most pleasingly feminine. The striking face was dominated by two huge eyes that were luminous and inhumanly silver. The things mouth was open to reveal two rows of metallic silver teeth that conveyed the impression that they could easily gouge through steel. Ingram didn't doubt that they could for a moment.

"What...what do you want from me?" he pleaded, wanting to suppress the tears, but failing miserably.

The thing came to within five feet of the whimpering man and then stopped, regarding Ingram with a mixture of incredulity and loathing.

"How dare you ask such a question?" it rasped in a voice that reminded Ingram of autumn leaves blowing over marble tombstones. "How dare you trivialize your crimes by feigning ignorance?"

Gregor shook his head in frantic negation, though a series of frantic images flashed through his mind. "I've done nothing! I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm...I'm dreaming this...aren't I?"

The thing's inscrutable eyes narrowed. Watching her, Gregor was struck by the distinct impression that he had seen that face before, though that was surely ludicrous. It floated closer and seizing the lapels of his jacket, dragged him upright and pulled him closer until their faces were only inches apart.

He could feel her hot breath on his skin and could hear the faint metallic clatter that was produced every time its teeth came together. Its incisive gaze bore into his skull like a drill, tearing into the meat of his mind. He could not conceive of rape being any more terrible or degrading than this.

"You really don't know what you've done," it murmured, eyes wide with the improbability of the notion. "By the Mother, you are but a pawn!"

Roughly, she threw him against the brick wall, where he slid bonelessly to the ground. It towered over him, eyes glazed in contemplation. Finally, it laid back its head and bellowed in frustration, the sound shredding the air with immutable rage. When it returned its attention to Gregor, there seemed to be a cheated aspect to its expression that Ingram could not fathom. When it spoke, its voice was raw with abhorrence. "Perhaps you have no inkling of what you've done. It is even possible that you were beguiled into your actions, but a truly pious man would not have been susceptible to corruption. If you deserve no other punishment, you must at least know the atrocities your hand has wrought."

With this, she reached down and clamped both hands over his temples, applying a pressure that Gregor feared would reduce his skull to powder. As horrifying as that prospect seemed, what followed made Ingram wish that she had done precisely that. Death was preferable to the tidal wave of guilt and shame that was now inundating his mind in response to the harrowing images of gruesome death that he had engineered.

"My name is Zavora Asari," the entity declared from somewhere beyond the hellish panorama unfolding in his mind's eye. Like the images, the name was a revelation that prompted him to utter an inarticulate wail of anguish. "These women who you have slaughtered were my sisters!"

Gregor saw the burning and smelled the cloying reek of flesh consumed before ravenous flames. He heard the staccato echo of gunfire and saw the blood pouring from the wounds of crucifixion. He watched himself stride forth, utter glib words of condemnation and drop a flaming torch into the kindling, thus consigning a human being to an unspeakably horrible death. When these images were indelibly implanted in his thoughts, the entity stepped back. "Carry these sins like millstones, Ingram. Excoriate yourself with their wickedness."

He glanced up at her, his face contorted into a piteous mask of abject self-loathing. "Kill me then. I don't want to live with this."

His entreaty degenerated into an inarticulate moan. Zavora looked on, indifferent to his suffering. "Death is a comfort that you do not deserve. Let the memory of your crime be the only thing you see to the last of your days."

With the speed of an adder, she placed the pads of her thumbs against his eyelids. A shrill cry of agony tore from the preacher's throat as the thumbs pressed inward, melting flesh until all that remained were two blackened holes.

"You can't leave me like this, please..." he sobbed. When he heard the whispering whisk as she turned and moved away, those sobs became strident shrieks.

Zavora did not look back. Her commerce with Ingram was at an end and she moved to heed a new exigent summons. Somewhere in the midst of this desolate wasteland, Zavora had divined the presence of the emissary.

Elizabeth stood on the crumbling step for a long moment after Gregor disappeared from sight. She was surprised to discover that she pitied Ingram. Like Contayza, he was a flawed man who had been seduced into hideous acts of evil and like Prowzi; he would now be forced to bare the traumatic scars of his ignominy for the rest of his life.

She shook her head. ' _No time to dwell on the sins of others_ ,' she chided herself. Her destroyers were coming for her. She sensed their presence in a visceral way, just as a cancer victim may feel their tormentor as it works its dark magic on their flesh. She glanced up at the gray September sky, suddenly mournful that the day was not clear. She closed her eyes and allowed the rain to wash over her face, not able to suppress the regret that simple pleasures such as this could soon be lost to her.

Drawing a tremulous breath, Elizabeth quickly spun about and entered the abandoned factory, trying to banish all thoughts from her mind save for the specifics of Cynara's plan. Crossing the concrete floor, she spared a brief glance at the detritus that had once been Jurgen Gerchnau, the unfeeling predator for whom she could rouse no pity.

Kneeling before the detonator, Elizabeth keyed up the system, somewhat daunted by the knowledge that by depressing a single button, she would destroy the entire abandoned zone. From this, her thoughts progressed to Cynara. Elizabeth prayed that she had succeeded in convincing Macevey that the zone must be cleared at once. The thought evoked a smile. If the task could be completed, Cynara would find a way. The realization that she was never going to see Saravic again filled her with an incisive pain and a profound regret. Not long ago, she would have snorted in derision at the suggestion that she could ever view Cynara with such unbridled affection. She wondered if the world was ready for a reformed Cynara Saravic and chuckled at the notion.

That chuckle dried in her throat the moment her eyes fell upon her ceremonial dagger. Cynara's gambit was predicated on perfect execution, but if her assassins suspected the slightest hint of deceit the charade would fail.

Now the rumble reached a thunderous pitch, shaking the very foundations of the surrounding buildings until it seemed inevitable that the decaying structures would crumble into moldering heaps of rubble.

Observers would later claim that the unusual black cloud that suddenly appeared to engulf the western half of the city had blossomed out of the Pacific. Only Elizabeth Simpson would have been able to attest that this conclusion was erroneous.

Struggling to retain a grip on her wavering composure, Simpson knelt before the detonator, still clutching the dagger in white-knuckled anxiety. Without prior warning, the south wall of the building exploded outward, scattering jagged shards of brick and twisted steel around the factory yard. Despite her burgeoning terror, Elizabeth could not help but be fascinated by the macabre spectacle that was now unfolding beyond the opening in the wall.

Less than a hundred yards from where she knelt, a jagged rupture opened in the tarmac, spreading across the yard with incredible swiftness. The rending of the earth raised a hideous sound that made Simpson want to clamp her hands over her ears to block it out. Something about the way the fissure elongated and widened reminded Elizabeth of a wound being torn open by invisible claws.

It continued to grow until it reached the very edges of the building. Now the chasm reminded the immortal of a gaping maw and she thought, "It means to swallow me whole."

When it seemed that this was precisely its intention, the rapid expansion abruptly ceased as did the cacophonous, gut-wrenching vibration. An eerie silence descended upon the abandoned zone then, steeped with a terrifying sense of expectancy.

Simpson drew a wheezing breath, trying to compose herself, but only partially succeeding. The hands that held the ritual dagger were shaking perceptibly now.

"Was this how Faust felt?" she wondered distantly.

The moments stretched out painfully and with a sibilant hiss, things began to move again. A thick, bilious black smoke spewed forth from the fissure, rising into the heavens and billowing out like a malignant mushroom. It continued to expand until it enveloped the entire western portion of the city.

Many of the zealots who had fled before the demon now fell to their knees in the streets, shrieking and offering frantic prayers to their God, convinced that the Apocalypse of the Revelations had finally come upon the world. A surprising number of watching cynics joined them in this conviction as panic and confusion ripped through the city streets like a flood.

The penumbra hung over the zone, churning and roiling like a thunderhead. Elizabeth gagged and clawed at her eyes as the acrid smoke assailed her eyes and lungs. The stench was that of charnel pits and abattoirs, rife with death and desiccating flesh. Elizabeth forced herself to open her eyes.

To her astonishment, she grasped that what she was witnessing was not an actual breech in the tangible world, but a tear in the very fabric of reality. She was not peering into the defecating bowels of the earth, but the gaping Stygian miasma of another dimension. She stood transfixed...paralyzed by dark wonder and atavistic dread as its hordes poured forth to claim her. In that moment of profound insight, she knew that there would be no deceiving these entities, that this was to be her end from which no craft or guile could spare her.

Figures began to emerge from the maw then, shapes which defied description and categorization. Despite her immortality, Elizabeth still possessed essentially human sensibilities and perceptive faculties. Her senses were incondign to the task of conveying the specifics features of the converging shapes. She fixed her eyes on the nearest creature, trying to discern something of its nature. Shimmering and rippling like a field of celestial light, before folding back on itself like a black hole, it simply defied comprehension.

Simpson shivered and tried to probe its thoughts only to find that, like its physical body, the entities' minds were inaccessible hieroglyphs.

Behind this abstruse mass of floating energy there came a more concrete form. A shrill cry, born of disgust and horror, tore from her contorted lips. Whereas, the first creatures were almost beautiful, like a dark vision glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, this thing was indescribably foul. A twisting mass of putrescence and filth, it slithered forward on an undulating carpet of excrement. Elizabeth's skin crawled at the prospect of being touched by such corruption and she very nearly plunged the dagger into her heart just to be free of the sight and pervasive stench.

Cynara had warned her that these demons would be vile beyond her reckoning, but no words, however graphic and compelling, could have prepared her for this hellish procession. On they came, an endless stream of grotesque monstrosities that positioned themselves in a great circle around the condemned immortal.

Simpson knelt there, finally forced to avert her eyes to the ground, lest she be driven into raving madness by the gibbering cordon of malevolence that now surrounded her. For a moment, all movement ceased and she raised her head, unaware that she had been screaming in negation since the first of the horrors had floated through the tear in the earth. She could feel their inhuman gaze upon her skin like a palpable touch, though not one of the entities possessed anything that might be described as an eye. Still, she could feel them watching her with the cold, dispassionate scrutiny of judgment. She waited, her trembling hands hovering over the button that would unleash a firestorm on the lifeless corpse of the abandoned zone.

Minutes dragged by and still the ancients did not come forth to complete their sanction. Baffled, she glanced quickly around and realized that they had not closed the circle. A narrow opening had been left in their ranks, one which would lead directly to the fissure. It then dawned on her that these demons had been dispatched merely to observe her execution. Her gaze shifted to the gaping wound in the earth. ' _Do they really think I'll go willingly into that_?'

As though by way or reply, a shape rocketed skyward in a lustrous burst of flame and then began to descend slowly back to earth. A sudden stir of excitement rippled through the assembly of demons and Elizabeth steeled herself, knowing that her assassin had arrived. The flaming mass came to earth and a figure emerged from its depths, silhouetted against the glare of its fiery mantle. The outline was definitely human and oddly familiar. The figure took several unhurried steps forward. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed, the impression of familiarity growing with each step. There was a poetic elegance to the assassin's movement, a lithe grace that Elizabeth had admired in the past. Then it came to her in a starburst of recollection.

She sprang to her feet, uncontrollable tears of relief rolling over the high ridges of her cheekbones. In a tremulous voice, she spoke the demon's name.

Alexandria!

2

Nathaniel Simpson watched the amazing developments unfold in the abandoned zone from the relative safety of his hotel. He sat in his chair, eyes riveted to the screen, feeling craven for having allowed Elizabeth to convince him to leave her, which in retrospect could be nothing other than an act of desertion.

The short ride from the factory to the hotel had been made in a charged silence. The girl, Cassie, appeared almost catatonic, but the perceptive Nathaniel discerned that her stoicism and fixed stare were inspired by a deeper and more complex emotion than fear and trauma. Contayza scarcely spoke and would not meet his concerned gaze, except in quick glances that conveyed an odd mixture of anger and embarrassment.

When the group arrived at the hotel, the police were on the verge of concluding their investigation. Nath tried to question the two women about the details of their abduction, but neither was willing to provide him with any answers. David Stillman had already departed his hotel by the time the trio returned. Nath noted that the two women sported identical expressions of anxiety and distaste as they crossed the threshold.

"I'm going to shower," Contayza declared in a flat, listless voice and moved into the bathroom without awaiting a response. Cassie drifted across the room and threw herself onto the bed, where she closed her eyes and curled into a tight ball. Nath watched the pair, feeling miserably inadequate. The pall of dejection that hung over the pair spoke eloquently of the severity of their ordeal without revealing a single detail of its nature. Not certain what else to do, Nath hauled a wing back over to the television and switched on CNN.

The blooming image was so awful and improbable that it wrung a gasp of strident denial from the pit of his lungs. The roar of the television roused Cassie from her torpor. She came to stand beside him, though her face displayed only a cursory interest. It was only later that Nath would grasp the reason for this apathy...for Cassandra Jasic, Elizabeth Simpson was already dead.

The screen depicted a squadron of news helicopters buzzing in the foreground like agitated bats. Indeed, they appeared no bigger than insects against the sheer enormity of the twisting curtain that dominated the entire horizon. Nath was reminded of a twister, though he could see no evidence of cyclonic movement. The curtain was essentially stationary, its black-purple surface reminding Nath of severely bruised flesh.

"Nothing could survive in that," Cassie remarked dispassionately. Nath scowled up at the girl, but she was already returning to her spot on the bed.

Nath returned his gaze to the screen, where a bolt of purple lightening leapt from the body of the aberration and struck the nearest helicopter, which promptly burst into a blinding ball of flame.

"My God, that thing is meant to act as a barrier!" Simpson declared. As the choppers scattered like the very flies they appeared to be, Nath came to see that the curtain had been intended to prevent intervention with whatever was transpiring behind it.

He stood up quickly, tipping the wing back to the carpeted floor. Reaching for his jacket, he started for the door, when a tired voice inquired, "Just what do you think you'll be able to do against that?"

Nath glanced over his shoulder to see Contayza standing in the bathroom door. She wore a terry cloth robe and her raven hair hung wet and limp around her pallid face. There was dark fire blazing in her eyes, though Simpson could not divine its source or meaning. "She's in there, Contayza...alone!"

"Nathaniel the valiant, always compelled by sense of duty and obligation to his mythical mother, prepared to rise to her defense at the slightest hint of threat...consequences be damned," she spat derisively. Nath watched her closely, shocked by the contempt and vitriol boiling in her voice. "Damnable bitch! Why did she ever have to come back?"

"Contayza, I..." he stammered, before trailing off into a miserable silence. It suddenly dawned on him that he could scarcely recognize the woman standing before him. Her soul was a twisted, contorted thing that had been poisoned by long-harbored resentments. She had managed to conceal these embittered demons for the past five years, but Elizabeth's return had stripped away the veneer to reveal a petty and ugly spirit. She moved towards him, her eyes flaying him with rancor. "Still, she at least said that your first obligation is to me and the daughter you put inside me. I suppose that we don't merit much consideration next to your precious Elizabeth. When you're gazing up at a deity on a pedestal, it's a simple matter to ignore the things scattered at your feet."

She turned away from him, a dark grin passing over her lovely face. "I'm going home, Nath. I'll be brutally succinct. You have a choice; your wife and daughter...or your beloved Elizabeth. If you're not on the plane when I leave, you need not come home at all."

Then she withdrew into the bathroom, leaving him to gape after her in bewilderment and incredulity, the way a farmer might watch a tornado move away after it has decimated his life. He had the sudden maddening compulsion to scream, ' _Where is my wife_?', but some deeper instinct informed him that he could well be seeing the truest version of Contayza Prowzi that there was to be found.

Nath sank back into his chair, trying to digest the emotional avalanche that had just buried him, when the door to the room swung open and the new incarnation of Cynara blazed into the room. Upon seeing the immortal, Cassie jumped to her feet, ran into her waiting embrace and pressed her face into Cynara's neck. "I was so afraid that I'd lost the both of you."

The teary declaration was fraught with such genuine relief that Cynara could not help but smile. "I'm fine, Cassie. You and I are both fine."

Then her gaze fell upon Nathaniel who was watching her from behind a tragic mask that blended hope and grim resignation in equal measure. He seemed to have aged ten years in the space of a few hours. "Why are you here, Cynara?" he asked thinly. "Have you seen what's happening in the zone?"

He faltered, dreading the expression of pity that spread over her lovely face. Crestfallen, he returned his gaze to the television where the macabre black curtain had fallen back on itself and was rapidly shrinking to nothing. Soon it was gone, leaving nothing to indicate that it had ever come. The sky was again restored to its original shade of repressive gray.

An expectant hush had descended upon the expanse of derelict asphalt and concrete.

"I've come to tell you that you mother is dead, Nathaniel," Cynara announced bluntly, though her dark eyes shone with compassion. Nath's eyes tightened into a thin bloodless slash and bowing his head, he nodded his acceptance. Something more seemed required and Cynara slipped easily into the next deliberate prevarication. "She died quickly and honorably. I think that she could even be described as content in knowing that you and your family would be safe. We both know that she would have willingly sacrificed anything to insure that."

He had not wanted to cry in front of this creature that had long been his reviled enemy, but he found himself helpless to quell the flood of tears. They came in a raging deluge of bitter loss. Cynara watched him suffer his moment of bitter grief. Of all the victims who had been inundated by the river of grief she had set to rolling, Nathaniel Simpson was perhaps the most undeserving. Ultimately, this contrived version of Elizabeth's fate would be the most compassionate deception that circumstances could provide, but that did little to anneal her own sense of guilt and shame. That she was capable of feeling these things at all would have made Elizabeth quite proud.

"I've come for Cassandra, Nathaniel," Cynara prompted softly. He glanced up at the immortal and then to the girl, who was regarding the taller woman with an expression akin to reverence. "Elizabeth made me promise that I would care for her. If Cassie is willing, then it is a promise that I would dearly love to keep."

Swiftly, Nathaniel's hand reached out and clamped down on Cynara's wrist. She could have effortlessly brushed him off but his touch created a current of pure empathy between the pair. He studied her intently, his eyes narrowed into slits of concentration as though his gaze might penetrate the veil of her thoughts. "Have you really changed? Is such a thing possible?"

Her first reaction was to lash out at him with the rapier of her indignation, but the Elizabeth in her nature urged patience. "Nathaniel, I wish I could provide you with some form of unequivocal proof of my reform, but I cannot. In Semelar, I turned Elizabeth through a process of evil that had been refined to eradicate any trace of goodness from the soul. Ultimately, incredibly, it failed with Elizabeth...a testament to her virtue. When Elizabeth defeated me in Chevru, she absorbed my essence into her soul as an act of mercy. Vicariously, I learned what it means to be human and to experience and begin to grasp emotions such as love, passion and compassion. I'll be candid and admit that I coerced you mother into granting me independent life. Using her love for David Stillman as leverage, I manipulated your mother into granting me life. I even entertained the notion that Cynara Saravic would be reborn as the egocentric megalomaniac she had always been. Only, I was wrong because the turning imbued me with your mother conscience. The old Cynara is dead and buried in the soil of Romania. Though I'm never going to be anyone's example of a saint, you needn't worry that I'll be a predator either."

Acceptance shone clearly in his eyes and he nodded. Turning to Cassandra, he asked, "Do you want to go with Cynara, Cassie?"

The girl's expression was certain and unequivocal. "Yes, only I'd like to call you Karnalla, if that okay?"

Cynara offered Cassie a radiant smile and spread her arms. Cassie went willingly into her embrace and as she did, Cynara Saravic passed into history. Now it was the immortal that could not stanch the flow of tears. In a tremulous voice, she whispered, "Of course you can, Cassie...after all, it is my name."

She glanced up at Simpson, saddened by his pinched expression and the dull light in his eyes. "Go home, Nathaniel. Take care of your wife and child. Contayza is going to need all the love and care you can find in your heart to give her. You needn't worry abut reprisals. Elizabeth has wiped the slate clean."

Then she was gone, leading Cassie to the door with a protective arm around the girl's shoulders. ' _Not Elizabeth_ ,' she thought. ' _Not by a wide margin, but she's special in her own right_.'

Brushing her lips close to the girl's ear, she declared, "Come Cassie, we have worlds to conquer." The girl turned her luminous gray eyes up to Cynara, her lovely face radiant with contentment.

5

Nath watched the pair go, surprised by how much regret Cynara's final parting evoked. Upon consideration, he saw that with her departure, his last connection to his mother had been permanently severed. Elizabeth Simpson had passed into the realm of memory. Shuddering, he turned around to discover Contayza watching him from near the bathroom door. He noticed that there was a constant darkness to her expression now. He wondered how long it would be before it was banished from her face. He suspected that it would be a long time...if ever.

"Please come home with me, Nath," she begged, the desperate tenderness in her voice at odds with her impassive expression. Wordlessly, Nath nodded and snapping off the television, Contayza came to him and led him from the room. The closing of the door behind him echoed loudly in his mind and it occurred to him that a substantial portion of his soul had been lost on the other side.

Chapter Thirty Five

1

Alexandria, the rogue demon. The ancient subversive. It had been Alexandria who had schooled the newly emancipated Elizabeth in the ways of immortality after Simpson had survived the horrors of Chevru. Now she was here...dispatched in the role of assassin. Elizabeth experienced a flood of relief so profound that she could barely control the urge to laugh aloud.

She sprang to her feet and stepped over the detonator, certain that it would no longer be necessary to carry through Cynara's charade. She came to within a few feet of the ancient demon and froze in mid step. Where once Alexandria's face had been alight with ineffable beauty and wisdom gleaned through sixty centuries of living, now there shone only a baleful determination.

Simpson stumbled and tried to retreat, but found herself being speared by twin shafts of amber light. Her body was flung up and over, twisting through the air like a rag doll. She slammed face first onto the worn concrete and lay gasping for breath. She tried to rise but the intensity of her pain defeated her efforts, reducing her to utter helplessness while she waited for the next blow to fall.

She noticed that her ceremonial dagger was gone.

Lifting her head, she saw it lying in a pool of dirty water some twenty feet from where she lay.

She attempted to summon it, but a huge force slapped her down, bouncing her head off the floor and blinding her with an agonizing white light.

When the pain finally receded to manageable levels, she raised her head to see Alexandria standing over her, holding the dagger in her right hand. The profusion of emeralds twinkled in the dull light of the ruined factory.

"You are an abomination that cannot be suffered," Alexandria declared coldly, though her eyes darted from side to side and her expression shifted constantly as thought the demon was under siege from a hundred conflicting emotions.

Reaching down, she plunged her hands into Elizabeth's thick hair and hauled the taller immortal to her feet. Despite the rough handling and the twisted scowl on Alexandria's face, Elizabeth discerned a certain reluctance in the demon's green eyes. She seemed to be waiting for something...searching for a sign of some sort.

Reversing her grip on the dagger, she slammed the butt into Elizabeth's face, sending her tumbling backwards in an explosion of emerald light. Simpson felt something shatter in the left side of her face which began to swell immediately, and realized that the demon could inflict real and lasting damage on her without even using the dagger.

She glanced up at Alexandria with her one good eye. The ancient was converging upon her, but there seemed to be an imploring glint in her eyes. A subtle whisper in her mind, so quiet as to be barely audible, urged her, "Strike now...quickly!"

Without hesitation, Elizabeth complied, sending a weak burst of energy leaping from her fingertips. By rights, it should barely have staggered Alexandria. Instead she was flung across the circle, landing in a sprawl near the ruined wall. Around her, the agitated demons began to converge upon Simpson.

"No!" Alexandria's voice rang with authority and they immediately stopped. She was on her feet and floating towards Simpson in a curtain of red light. Despite the apparent impact, she had not lost her grip on the dagger.

In a sudden burst of clarity, Elizabeth suddenly grasped the motivation that lay behind Alexandria's actions. Like Cynara, she was attempting to devise some way of sparing Elizabeth's life, while convincing those who had been dispatched as witnesses that she had actually killed the immortal.

If only there was some way of communicating Cynara's plan to Alexandria. Turning onto her knees, she began to crawl towards the detonator, yet the uncharacteristic pain turned her limbs to lead and spun her head like a top. Alexandria swooped down on her and casually kicked her in the face. Though the blow did not carry the force of the previous two strikes, it still propelled Simpson onto her back. A viscous orange icor began to drip from her nose and then Alexandria was straddling her.

"I'm so sorry, Elizabeth." The whisper in her mind was fraught with raw anguish and regret.

Seconds dragged by and one of the witnesses spoke to Alexandria in a language that Simpson could not understand, perhaps sensing the ancient's reluctance. With flashing irritation, Alexandria slashed back with an acidic reply and the witness fell silent.

"Please forgive me!" she mouthed and raised the dagger to deliver the killing blow.

Before the hand had reached the zenith of its arc, a blinding argent light flooded the interior of the factory. In the next moment, Alexandria was gone, leaving Simpson staring up at the shattered remains of the ceiling.

2

The avenging angel that had once been Zavora Asari raced through the alleys and streets of the deserted zone like an implacable dervish. It could clearly sense the emissary's presence along with the approach of a more malign force.

It emerged from the alley adjacent the factory just as the earth was torn asunder and the penumbra began to spread over the abandoned zone. Concealed behind a pile of rubble, it watched the parade of monstrosities pour from the rent like pus from infected flesh.

Then a single figure had made its graceful entrance, radiating both beauty and evil purpose in equal measure. In seconds, she had attacked the emissary and after a few blows it became exceedingly obvious that Artemis' chosen was no match for this vile creature. Summoning her full puissance and accumulated outrage, Zavora swept across the yard and into the factory intending to strike one telling blow for the Goddess before these abominations would have her.

In a stellar burst of argent brilliance, Zavora exploded from her place of concealment, ripping across the fragmented pavement and up thrust earth. She fell upon the unsuspecting Alexandria with the full weight of her power, the momentum of their collision carrying the pair well away from the battered immortal. With her arms locked tightly around Alexandria's neck, she unleashed every ounce of energy at her disposal, hoping to incinerate her enemy. The subsequent eruption was so intense that even the ancient demons were forced to retreat before it.

A single strangled imperative tore from the heart of the conflagration, "Run!"

Still stunned by the effects of her beating, Elizabeth managed to turn onto her hands and knees. She stared dumbly at the swirling cocoon of amber, trying to identify the source of her would-be salvation.

The argent fury continued to swell in heat and magnitude until the very stone of the factory took to flame and the steel paneling of the roof turned to molten liquid, which rained down upon the occupants like hell fire. Still disoriented, Simpson glanced up through the slit of her one good eye to see that the main support beams were beginning to lose their rigidity.

It would not be long before the entire structure lost its integrity and collapsed like a house of cards.

Thinking that she could actually escape, she cut her gaze to the entrance only to find that several of the demons had positioned themselves so as to prevent her flight.

Cursing, she swept her gaze over the steaming hell of the factory floor. The detonator sat forgotten as bits of molten slag rained down around it. Incredibly, none had actually fallen on the case. Fighting pain and dizziness, she crawled over to the case, still not certain of her own intentions.

In the swirling vortex of chaos around her, it was just possible that an explosion might well provide her with a brief opportunity to escape.

Her hand fell upon the detonator just as a harrowing shriek arose from within the silver pyre. Suddenly, thin thread of gold began to weave their way through the surface of the dervish, rapidly knitting together until the last of the silver light had been consumed. When the last of the argent light had been extinguished, a series of blood-curdling howls erupted from within the storm of energy.

In the blink of an eye, the vortex was gone. In its place, Alexandria held the body of a naked woman who Elizabeth recognized to be Zavora Asari, the Wiccan priestess. Death had restored her to her mortal form. The demon advanced towards the kneeling Simpson, her green eyes blazing wickedly. Beneath the superficial expression of contempt and loathing, Simpson could discern a deeper pain and repugnance at the taking of human life.

A single thought bloomed in the core of Elizabeth's being with such authority and power that Simpson's hand drew away from the detonator. ' _Ingrain_!'

Elizabeth's body shook with the force of the suggestion. Despite her natural revulsion to the process, she understood that there was no other alternative if she wished to survive.

She gave her affirmation in the form of a slight nod and a subtle pursing of the lips. Alexandria grinned, the expression feral and triumphant. "Nothing, not even this feral dog, can save you from the dark father's vengeance."

Scornfully, she flung Zavora's body at Simpson, who allowed herself to be toppled over by the impact.

With a deceptively swift flash of a thumb nail, she laid open Zavora's jugular. Without assistance of a beating heart to lend it momentum, the mortal's blood trickled languidly from the gaping wound. Flinging her arms around Asari's head so as to mask her purpose, Elizabeth pressed her mouth to Zavora's and fighting back her welling revulsion, thrust her tongue into the dead woman's mouth so as to open her jaws to full capacity. Then she began to vomit the core of her being into the lifeless vessel, praying that the confusion and acrid smoke would be sufficient to disguise her actions from the sentinels.

She drained herself until only enough of her vital essence remained to direct the dying husk of her physical body. Using the last of her energy, she cast the body aside, knowing that it would soon be her new residence. Slowly, she raised her head and peered across the floor with eyes that were fast growing dim. Alexandria had retrieved the dagger and was converging upon her, now clearly intent upon ending the nightmare. Even as she spiraled towards unconsciousness, Simpson was cognizant of the need for haste. As she sank into the numbing waters, her dying flesh was attuned with its lost essence and she could feel the transmogrification process slowly cycling up in the alien body. If she was suddenly to awaken in her new form, Alexandria's ruse would be exposed.

Alexandria seized Elizabeth's hair and roughly jerked her head up and laid bare her throat. Dispassionately, she intoned, "His will be served."

With this, she drew the blade across Elizabeth's throat. There was a moment of incisive pain and then Simpson's remaining essence fled her dying body. Alexandria drew the dagger back and forth, cutting ever deep into flesh and finally bone until the body fell back to the floor. Still holding the disembodied head, she slowly stalked across the floor and threw the token at the feet of the nearest witness.

"Go and bring them this. Tell the Father that the abomination is no more!" Alexandria instructed brusquely, suddenly indifferent to her insolent tone, though any one of these entities could have easily immolated her with a mere arching of an eyebrow. She stood utterly still, trying to master her mounting agitation as the witnesses filed back into the fissure. The penumbra withdrew as quickly as it appeared and the tear in the fabric of reality quickly healed itself.

Now Alexandra moved with an exigency born of desperation. She studied the detonator, quickly grasping Simpson's initial intention. She spent several indecisive moments trying to determine how best to proceed, finally reaching the conclusion that all traces of what had transpired in this wretched place must be thoroughly effaced.

Crossing the floor, she bent down and scooped Zavora Asari's body into her arms, feeling the ongoing process of transformation communicated through the vibration of flesh. Even after sixty centuries, its dark vibration could still inspire wonder.

There was a crude logic in Elizabeth's scheme to deceive her assassins. Standing over the device, Alexandria extended an elegant foot and depressed the activation plunger.

There followed a low rumble that shook the very foundations of the city. A wave of low frequency energy pulsed through the meat and viscera of Seattle, shattering windows and crumbling structurally deficient buildings miles from the blast area. For the second time in less than an hour a cloud of black smoke and fire arose over the abandoned zone, though this second penumbra could not be mistaken for anything but what it was. Arturo Richeras and his Pyronators had been meticulous in their placement of the devices, religiously adhering to their sponsor's directions. The spontaneous detonation of more than two hundred devices leveled every structure in the abandoned zone and showered the surrounding area with tons of debris.

With Zavora Asari's body protectively enfolded in her arms, Alexandria soared high above the blossoming flower of devastation. Slashing across the sky like a striking hawk, she swept out over the Pacific Ocean, ascending thousands of feet above the turbulent waters. When she judged that she had traveled far enough, she hovered and allowed a cocoon of golden radiance to envelop the prone body in her arms.

With a final fond smile, she released the body and watched as it plummeted out of sight, vanishing into the bosom of the ocean. Alexandria knew that the ocean was a capricious keeper. There was no telling what would become of the cargo and perhaps that uncertainty was for the best.

Allowing herself another satisfied grin, her body became a swirl of golden light, which swept westward against the wind and was gone.

3

David Stillman stood silently in the courtyard of his new home, gazing pensively up at the majesty of the snowy mountains that stood sentinel above the enclave of Chevru. It had been six months since he had left America and in that time he had busied himself restoring the estate that his former enemy had endowed to him. True to her word, David had come to inherit Cynara's incredibly vast fortune as a kind of reparation payment.

With a dogged sense of purpose, he had worked himself to exhaustion to rebuild this once majestic mansion from the decaying hulk that he had first discovered upon coming here. In that time, David had been meticulous, even obsessive, his preoccupation distracting him from the feelings of sinking despair that constantly nipped at the edges of his consciousness.

Now, as April pivoted on the edge of May and the vital breezes of spring began to blow gently over the face of Northern Romania, the work was all but complete; the Saravic estate had been restored to its former glory. With nothing left to prevent it, David's mind fastened on the one crucial detail that remained glaringly absent from his newly constructed world...Elizabeth Simpson.

The disaster in Seattle had been the focus of attention the world over for weeks after the explosion that had reduced the former abandoned zone to smoldering rubble. The television footage was replayed incessantly until the events became a mindless blur. A thousand hypotheses were explored and discarded, but the cause of the bizarre events of that September day remained largely unexplained.

Stillman watched the footage, developing a morbid fixation that caused him to replay every frame in slow motion, searching for any insight that would help him unravel the mystery of what had actually transpired in that tiny enclave of hell.

One morning, he had abruptly, but deliberately burned the tape, watching as it curled and went up in acrid tendrils of smoke. He was perceptive enough to realize that this was the symbolic first step in letting go of the hope that Elizabeth would return to him. He had little illusion that this process would not be a lengthy one, but the first steps of any journey were often the most difficult and he had somehow found the fortitude to take those first steps.

Winter passed, the constant stream of workmen dwindled and finally ceased. At last, he was completely alone and with the solitude came the realization that he must decide how to spend the remainder of his life, twenty-five years of which had disappeared down the rabbit hole of catatonia.

On this day, like most since the first whispers of spring had touched the land, David would throw on a jacket and simply wander around the grounds in the later afternoon. These excursions would often be rewarded with the forlorn cry of a solitary wolf or the glorious spectacle of the sun washing amber over the surrounding mountains. As the days passed, he grew to cherish his solitude, only venturing into town when provisions were required. He learned to speak Romanian passably well and turned his attention to managing the financial empire that Cynara had so skillfully constructed. In truth, the empire literally ran itself, but minor tinkering served to pass the time and he was delighted to see that most of his investment decisions were well rewarded.

On this afternoon, David emerged from the trees and stood at the foot of the long slope that led up to the rear courtyard. He could hear water gurgling in a nearby brook and paused to draw a deep gulp of fresh air. Such poignant moments only reinforced the notion that he had finally found a home.

He was about to start up the slope with a mind to preparing supper, before settling in to labor over the novel outline that he had been tinkering with when a voice startled him. "David!"

He glanced up to find that there was someone standing on the rear steps. At the sound of his name, David's heart began to race. He quickly hurried up the slope and came to a halt at the base of the stairs. The woman was a stranger and his disappointment was clearly reflected on his face. "Hello...how did you manage to get in here?"

"Did you honestly think there was anything that could keep me away?" she inquired seriously, though her eyes twinkled with mirth.

"My God, Elizabeth?" The woman standing before him was tall and beautiful in an austere way. Only the limpid blue eyes echoed any trace of the Elizabeth whom he had known.

She nodded, tears now glistening in her eyes, and opened her arms to him. After a slight hesitation, he ran to her. The electric jolt of recalled passion that passed between them confirmed irrefutably that this was the woman whom he had always loved.

"Liz, I was...afraid that you weren't...that you had..." he stammered and fell silent, overwhelmed by emotion.

She laid a long index finger on his lips and whispered, "I'm here David. There is nothing in this world...or any other that will take me away from you again."

Clinging to each other like children, the two went up the stairs and into a future that they had struggled to find for nearly thirty-five years.

Epilogue

1

The first fifty years of Elizabeth Simpson's life had been characterized by soaring euphoria and sinking despair. She had oscillated wildly between these two extremes, her world rocked by momentous events that few had ever lived to experience.

After the final grim converging of destinies in Seattle, the spectacular life of Elizabeth Simpson was transformed into an existence best described as pleasant obscurity. As in all lives, there were moments of sorrow and joy, but none of the epic drama that had been the everyday stuff of her first half century of existence.

For all of her tribulations and irreversible losses, Elizabeth was finally rewarded with the one thing that she had craved above all others...an ordinary life.

2

David Stillman died in her arms one lovely summer evening as the setting sun emblazoned the world in a hundred hues of crimson, reflecting off the face of the mountains like living fire. They had shared thirty intimate years together in which each had been the full extent of the others world. She had offered him the gift of the turning, but he had adamantly refused, just as a portion of her soul suspected he would. David was a man who needed the reassurance of tangible limits...a definite beginning and an eventual end. She correctly surmised that the prospect of immortality frightened him more than death.

Still, the years passed slowly and were filled with love and passion and pervasive contentment. Even David's death was a gradual and relatively painless thing, like sinking into warm and calming waters.

Weakened by the ravages of old age, he had nonetheless placed his arm around her neck and drew her ear close to his lips. He inhaled the sweet smell of her blond hair. As the years passed, she had restored herself to her true appearance and she was glad that he would carry her original face into the darkness and whatever might wait beyond. "Elizabeth, whatever I lost, those years alone and disoriented, you gave me every minute of them back and so much more."

His arms went slack and he settled back onto the pillow, gone in the blink of an eye. She sat with him all through the night. The next morning, she buried him deep in the soil next to Cynara. This foreign land was the only one true home that David had ever known.

3

Within a month after David had died, Elizabeth made her first journey back to the United States in thirty years. Part of her mind was assiduous in admonishing her against the pain that this sentimental pilgrimage would evoke, but she returned regardless.

For thirty years, she thought of her son in brief, melancholy flickers, understanding that Nathaniel was a subject that could only lead her along the path to despair. The yearning to see him and learn of his life never left her, but she struggled valiantly to keep it buried deep in her subconscious thoughts.

With David's death, there emerged an insatiable need to know that Nath's world was one of light and fulfillment. She had left little doubt that, like herself, she was never very far from his thoughts, but she offered a fervent prayer that he had found the wherewithal to manage her memory and not allow it to leach the joy from his life.

She had spent two dreadful weeks in a Boston hotel suite agonizing over her decision to seek Nath out if only to see his face, knowing that actual contact was unthinkable...like ripping open old scars or dredging up ancient sorrows.

Still, to look on his face one final time.

It was Christmas in New England and the City of Boston was aglow with lights and sound. For Elizabeth, there had always been something inexpressibly sad about the festive season...perhaps a stark reminder of all that she had lost.

Nath lived on the outskirts of the city in a lovely colonial home that declared a fair degree of comfort. She could take a certain measure of happiness in the notion that his life had at least been secure. That Saturday morning would live in her memory for eternity.

She sat behind the wheel of a nondescript rental sedan, watching the Simpson home from a distance, trying not to dwell on the true reality of what actually separated her from her son. Near noon, Nath and Contayza had emerged from their home and driven to one of the city's largest shopping centers. She had followed discreetly, not wanting to lose sight of the pair, who had aged thirty years since she had last set eye upon them.

There had been a dream-like surrealistic quality to that long, languid afternoon. Elizabeth began to feel as insubstantial as a specter, though she garnered many appreciative glances from the hordes of male shoppers. Contayza was still beautiful, her dark eyes as intense as ever. Yet, these was a shadow lying across her soul, which Elizabeth knew had been planted at an isolated California diner thirty years before, and had germinated and grown into something bitterly cold and hard. That shadow reminded Elizabeth of black holes in space...an infinite void that could consume the vitality of everything around it.

Nathaniel, the first sight of him made her want to cry and she had to close her eyes and look away for several moments. He had aged the full thirty years and more and something in his tired face declared that the passage of time had not been an effortless matter. He wore glasses now and his once lustrous blond hair had turned a listless gray and had thinned to wisps. His eyes were dull and his face thin...so unlike the beautiful boy that she remembered.

Watching him, she whispered a vile epithet against the cruelty of time and the indiscriminate twists of fate that had drove them apart.

Then another woman joined them and this time Elizabeth could not entirely restrain the flow of tears. Contayza smiled radiantly and so did Nath, the expression restoring his face to something of what it had once been. There could be little doubt that this was her granddaughter.

The young woman was a beautifully constructed blending of the best of Contayza and Nathaniel. Her lovely face was dominated by extraordinary honey-almond eyes that shone with vitality above high cheek bones. About the woman, there shone an aura of energy and warmth. It might have surprised Elizabeth to know that it was precisely this aura that had attracted Cynara to her all those years before. Elizabeth was genuinely pleased by her granddaughter, knowing that she had infused Nath's life with a warmth that would have been conspicuously absent had he been left alone with the austere Contayza.

She followed the trio discreetly for the rest of the afternoon, her heart beset by an incongruous mixture of joy and sorrow. Despite the teeming mass of Christmas shoppers, the three drifted through the crowded mall as though alone. Elizabeth's sense of isolation never felt so stark or poignant as it did at that moment, and though this vicarious sharing was torturous, she could still not compell herself to leave, perhaps correctly intuiting that this would be the last time she would set eyes upon her son.

It could well have been that Nathaniel discerned a powerful presence, but all at once, he stiffened and abruptly turned in her direction. Elizabeth quickly turned around and examined a window display.

"Nathaniel?" Contayza inquired sharply, trying to follow his gaze. There was a wild, expectant light in his eyes that frightened her. He flashed his gaze on her briefly, his expression hinting at an uncharacteristic impatience. When he returned his attention to the woman standing at the window, she had vanished. He looked around frantically for several seconds and then, thinking that his tired mind was playing tricks on him, went back to his family with a reassuring grin.

Yet, over the remaining years of his life, he would come awake in the still of the night, heart pounding with the implacable certainty that he had missed the granting of a miracle by the distracted blink of an eye on that December afternoon.

4

Out of obligation and an admitted curiosity, Elizabeth monitored the life of Karnalla Mansley, a simple undertaking considering the avalanche of publicity that the woman garnered. Cynara had taken up the thread of Mansley's life with a vengeance and not surprisingly, soon Mansley was again the most recognizable face on the planet.

Speculation was rampant over Karnalla's beauty which did not seem to fade with the passing of time, though the woman was now over fifty years old. The last thought caused Simpson to smile, knowing that Cynara was well into her third century of life. Some of the more ludicrous of tabloids even went so far as to suggest that Mansley employed supernatural means to maintain her youth. That they were correct was perhaps the most amusing irony of all.

There were two more serious aspects to Simpson's distant scrutiny of Mansley's life. When Elizabeth had reanimated Cynara in Los Angeles, she swore a personal oath that she would never allow Cynara to revert back to her old murderous habits. If she perceived the slightest indication that this might happen, Simpson vowed that she would destroy Cynara once and for all as any indictments against Cynara would be scars on her own soul as well. Yet despite the woman's outrageous excess, Elizabeth detected nothing to suggest that the immortal had strayed back to her old ways.

Except...

She glanced briefly over a newspaper article that detailed the grim discovery of two horribly mutilated bodies in a Diner near the Canadian town of Wawa, Ontario. Witnesses indicated that the diner closed as usual, but on the following morning, the family owned business remained closed. Later that evening, Provincial Police had entered the diner to discover the grisly remains of the two proprietors. There were no clues as to who might have committed the horrendous crime.

Conversely, Elizabeth harbored no doubt. Cynara's sense of justice was Draconian. Retribution was something that she was not likely to resist, especially under circumstances where it was so clearly called for. Simpson, whose restrain was saintly when compared to Cynara's, recalled how murderously outraged she had been when Cassie had first conveyed her recollections of her home life. This was one act of retaliation that she would forgive Cynara, knowing that under the right circumstances, she might have been capable of the same savage extraction of justice.

Cassie Jasic...the tabloids referred to the girl as Karnalla's ruby, the constant companion whose reticence and beauty was the subject of endless speculation. The pair was virtually inseparable and that roused suspicion in Elizabeth, who reached for a recent copy of Life magazine. Karnalla emblazoned the cover in all her glory, but Liz's eyes were drawn to the young woman who was watching her from the background, her exquisite gray eyes inscrutable. Elizabeth remembered Cassie as an innocuous, attractive girl whose life had been marred by more sorrow than should be dispensed in a hundred life times.

The Cassandra that had been captured by a photographer in Vienna did not even remotely resemble the girl who Elizabeth had rescued along the road to her own personal hell. Those gray depths shone with an intelligence that could not be attributed to worldly experience alone. As was the case with Karnalla, Cassie's beauty defied the ravages of time and Elizabeth knew that Karnalla had turned her...a third immortal.

She studied the hundreds of photographs of Karnalla's ruby, attempting to glean some insight into her nature, but Cassie's mind eluded every attempt to catch a glimpse of its dark interior.

Elizabeth sifted through the pile of photographs and produced one that had always disturbed her, even when her suspicions were only in their formative stage. It showed an impassive Cassie gazing out at a legion of fans and photographers, while Karnalla regarded the girl with an expression of nearly comical reverence on her face.

With implacable certainty, Simpson realized that it was Cassie who had enticed Karnalla to kill the parents and to grant her immortality. Somehow, the lamentable wayward soul who had attempted to kill Elizabeth Simpson had evolved into a shrewd manipulator, who firmly held Karnalla Mansley in her thrall.

To Elizabeth's consternation, she saw that it was not Karnalla, but Cassandra Jasic who would bear watching.

"Oh Cynara, you were always a mark for superficial beauty," Elizabeth murmured. She set the photograph aside, experiencing a sudden wave of pity for the woman whom she had finally come to regard as her friend.

5

For Elizabeth Simpson, the final tether that moored her to her old world snapped on cold March day twelve years after she had surreptitiously followed her family through a Boston mall.

She was standing well back in the trees as they slowly lowered her son's casket into the ground, feeling as though a huge part of her was about to be interred in the earth along with the boy whom she had scarcely known.

Her immortal's visual acuity allowed her to see their faces clearly as Contayza and Rebecca clung to each other to ward off the cold March wind and the sweeping grief. Contayza's face was veiled, but the girl's was unconcealed and fraught with raw sorrow. She lingered in the trees until the last of the mourners had drifted off, watching as Contayza and then Rebecca had laid a single rose upon Nathaniel's grave. Then, they too were gone, leaving Elizabeth alone with the specters.

She made her way down to the grave and sat on a nearby bench, staring vacantly at the marble headstone, reading the tacit eulogy which tried and failed to capture the life it declared as lost.

"All gone now," she whispered to herself and began to weep softly. She was utterly alone, all of the figures who had populated her world, endowing it with color and depth, were lost to her. This feeling of utter emptiness, of looming desolation, beckoned Elizabeth into a world of bitter memories and wistful reminiscence that would ultimately lead to numbing despair.

Sitting at her son's graveside, Elizabeth finally gained an appreciation of the forces that had compelled Cynara to seek her out and try to claim her. That macabre period echoed in her mind in distant sepia tones as though it had happened a thousand life times ago and not a mere sixty years before. It had not been spite, malice, or even avarice that had led to Elizabeth's turning. In this place of death, Elizabeth came to glean the single motive for Cynara's savage and ultimately tragic campaign to claim her soul...desperation.

To drift through the world like an itinerant specter searching for some point of contact to give it life and purpose; such a fate made death seem merciful by comparison.

With all the things she cherished now lost to her, Elizabeth had no notion how to proceed once she left this cold place.

"Your world is now a blank canvas, Elizabeth," a voice declared softly, startling her from her melancholy reverie. Her head snapped up and she gasped.

Nathaniel was standing by his headstone, a hand casually resting on the cold marble. "Is...is it really you, Nath?"

He smiled and nodded, thought his grin was spectral and indistinct. "There are people who've decided you might be in need of some comfort...and perhaps a good pep talk," he intoned lightly. "It seems that you have friends in high places, Mother."

Her voice became tremulous and she glanced down at her hands. "I'm so alone, Nathaniel. My existence is barren...pointless. Perhaps this is the real reason that no one should live forever. No one deserves to suffer this pervasive loneliness. It's too cruel...too awful."

Now his expression became solemn, his piercing blue eyes twinkling softly. God, how beautiful this apparition was; a Nathaniel unsullied by the dirty twists of the physical world. "There are two roads before you, Mother...two paths that you may follow. The first is the road of shadow and thorns and none who trod upon it can survive for long under the noxious atmosphere of longing for things that are irretrievably lost. To cling to the past and forsake the present and the future is a sad fool's endeavor. The attraction is strong and compelling because it preys upon longing and a futile wish to recapture what is forever gone. Do you see this, Elizabeth?"

She nodded somberly, knowing that he spoke the irrefutable truth. She had entertained these notions all too often of late.

"And the other path?" she inquired distantly, her gaze riveted upon her son's placid face.

"The other is the way of hope and optimism. Yes, I have died, but I am not lost to you. Will I not always reside in you memories? Unlike sad mortals, those memories will never lose their clarity or focus. They will always be there whenever you require them for solace. As for life...you are like a newborn, except you have the intelligence and sensibilities to select the path that you wish to follow. This is a vast world, so rich in diversity and despite all of the base and ugly things that we have seen, so breathtakingly lovely. There are endless adventures to be had and passions to be explored and indulged. And love...even love, mother. As long as man clings tenaciously to the face of the world, there will be new tapestries to weave. If you do not succumb to malaise, you will be there to experience them all."

Elizabeth offered her son a wry smile, "How'd you get so smart, kiddo?"

He returned her smile, though his tone was quite serious, "It's in the family blood."

"Will we ever see each other again?"

"I remember how I asked you the same question in Chevru and I recall how you told me that we would always be in each others hearts. I've come to learn that this is the best answer that one can expect." He abruptly looked skyward, an expression of unadulterated joy passing over his face. Then he turned his gaze to Elizabeth...one extraordinary creature saying farewell to another. "I have to go now, mother."

She raised her hand and waved goodbye, "Goodbye Nathaniel."

Even as he slowly faded, he raised his hand and returned the gesture. Then he was gone.

6

She came awake with a start, bemused to discover that she had actually dozed in the cold March air. With the return to waking, her jubilation faded.

"All a dream then," she remarked. Then her gaze strayed to her lap and an exuberant smile spread over her lovely face. Two red roses lay nestled in the folds of her sable.

Elizabeth rose and crossed over to her son's grave, where she laid one of the roses at the base of his headstone. She lingered for a moment and then, still carrying the other red rose, turned and walked out of the graveyard and in keeping with her nature, Elizabeth Simpson set out along the path of light.

George Straatman – January 11th, 1996
