He lay on his bed. He knew it was his though he'd never slept in it. There were posters on the walls, movie posters.

Whatever actor it was that had last played Batman glared seriously at him from one, and a blonde supermodel unnervingly like a young Brigitte Bardot simpered at him from another. He sat up and looked around. Clothes were scattered everywhere, and toys. Mommy had told him to clean things up before he could play, but the lure of his brand new Spiderman comic was too much for him. He could sneak a few minutes and break off the instant he heard her coming down the hall and pretend to have been cleaning all along. She'd never know. He smiled to himself and settled in to read.

Then voices cut through his stolen pleasure. One belonged to his mother; he couldn't make out the other. She sounded scared, her tone high and cracked with strain. He'd never heard her sound like that before, not even when she argued with Daddy. She was shouting something, and it scared him. He had to find out what was happening, what was wrong.

He rounded a corner in the huge hall, hugging close to the wall, cautious of being seen. The voices were coming from Mommy's bedroom. His sisters were there too; he could hear them crying, but it was not their usual kind of fussing. They were afraid, so much so that it made his chest hurt hard, as though he wanted to cry himself.

There was another corner. He could see golden light from the big bedroom spilling around it. He didn't want to go there. Something horrible was there. Then suddenly his mother's words rang clear: "No! For God's sake! You can't, not my babies, you can't, you can't-NOOO!"

She made an awful scream, and a balloon popped somewhere, scaring him, making him jump. It was a big balloon, because it made a big noise, and the air rang with the sound. Now his sisters shrieked like little animals, and two more balloons popped, the explosions echoing toward him.

Then all the noise stopped, and no more followed.

He shivered in the hall. Confused, afraid. He tried to call out, but couldn't make himself speak.

Who had blown up balloons? It wasn't Christmas or a birthday. There'd be trouble for bursting them. Daddy didn't like that. He hated any kind of sudden, loud sounds.

It was too quiet, something awful had happened. He didn't want to see it, but he had to. Maybe Mommy needed help. He moved forward. Then he peered around the corner, and he could see. Mommy was sitting in a chair. Her head was down on her chest. Maybe she was asleep. She must have spilled something because the front of her blouse was all stained... red.

His heart raced and his breath came short. He knew the stain was blood. He'd seen blood before, lots of it that time when he split his toe at day camp, and had to go to the hospital in an ambulance, and bled all down the hall. But this was much more. This was real bad. This was much worse than any of that.

His sisters were lying on the floor against the wall, and they were bleeding too from spots on their foreheads.

Neither of them cried. But they always cried when they got hurt. Always. Now they just looked asleep, like Mommy.

Tears slid silently down his face and he started to rock gently from foot to foot. Wetness gathered at his crotch.

What had happened to them and why? Was it still there? Would it come for him?

Then there was a gun. It was huge, black. It seemed to fill every space of the room, fill all of his world, as it slowly turned to point at him. The hole at the end of the barrel threatened to swallow him. Someone was speaking, but he didn't know who. All he could see was the gun; there was nothing else. The finger on the trigger tensed, and the hammer began to move. He could see it clearly, hear the mechanism start its unholy journey.

"Adios to you too, you little bastard."

He should run, shouldn't he? Or maybe he should stay with Mommy. He tried to look at her but could not tear his gaze from the gun.

The hammer slid farther back on its inevitable journey, and then plunged forward. There was flame and a flash, the explosion crashing though the quiet, bursting through his ears, sending his mind spinning. He heard something fizz past him and thud into the wall behind. The gun had been jerked to one side at the last instant. Mommy had pushed it away.

She was on her feet now, weakly struggling with the gun, and the man who held it was hitting her and swearing at her, and through all this her hoarse terrified voice pierced through his own fear.

"Run, Michael, run, run, run run run-!"

He ran for his life away from the scene. He barely heard the last balloon pop, cutting off his mother's shout. He tore through the house and out of the front door.

Bright morning light greeted him, nearly blinded him. He just ran and ran. He did not need to hear the man start after him to know he was there.

He ran across the bare front yard toward the beginnings of the mesquite scrub. Their fluffy-looking green concealed an endless number of long thorns. He ducked low, darting beneath the branches. The big man could not easily follow him here. The trees closed fast behind him and opened wide ahead into protecting darkness. He could hide there.

He ran straight into it, into the long dark tunnel that stretched endlessly before him.

He would be safe forever and ever if he could get to the end of the tunnel. He knew that.

He would be safe if only he could reach its end... if only he could...

Chapter Six

The tunnel was long, yet it seemed that he was finally coming to the end; he could see lights. He headed directly for them, but they were not to be reached, for even as he neared they swung away at the last instant, and darkness closed around him again. Would he ever find the end of it? He began to despair when more lights appeared in the distance.

Again to his frustration, they swung away from him, but this time a strange wailing sound accompanied them. It rose and fell as it passed.

Too much like a banshee, Richard thought, stirring with unease.

The blackness slowly brightened, though, and Richard realized that he was sitting in an enclosed space, and there was something under his right foot that vibrated slightly. In fact everything vibrated slightly all around him. If only he could see more in this damned murk. He bowed his head, rubbing the glue from his eyes, and his world gave an unexpected lurch. He snapped up, all attention, found he could see perfectly well, and for a split second, panic seized him.

His car sped along, weaving gently from side to side, paying attention to neither the line down the middle of the road nor its ragged shoulders. No wonder the lights swerved away from his approach. They'd been other cars. Thank God he'd not caught any of them.

He grabbed hard at the steering wheel where his hands rested, and brought the vehicle under control. How in the name of all things had he gotten here? He could not remember. He must have left the house and been driving on autopilot for God knows how long-without bothering to turn on the headlights. It was a wonder he hadn't killed anyone.

Richard corrected the oversight and tried to get his bearings. He was still out in the country, and heading toward a glow on the horizon that must be Dallas. The clock on the dash pulsed green numbers at him, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the time it showed, only that it was very late. Or very early. Hours must have passed since his nightmare had begun. And he was apparently still in it.

He was sweating, and dizziness washed over him in waves, though the sea that tossed him was no longer in full storm. Memories came and went willy-nilly, refusing to stay long enough for sorting. Finding the bodies, the explosion, he could remember those clearly enough, but other details were muddy. He'd been sick... no, badly injured- As if in response to the thought a sudden cramp in his stomach doubled him over, and the car swerved in violent reaction. He had to stop.

He hit the brakes a good deal harder than he meant, and the vehicle came to rest with its front end on the shoulder, its rear out on the road. No matter, it wasn't a busy highway. Richard cut the motor, pushed the door open, and staggered out into the night air. It cooled him, and he drank it down in great gulps like an exhausted runner. He remembered now. The damned animal blood. The hallucinations and shadows.

And... that vision.

He'd seen it all, seen how the murders in the house had happened. He had been Michael, been right inside his head, looking out through his eyes. Yet how could that be? Richard did not have the Sight. Sabra had told him often enough that it was not part of his Gift.

"It is given by the Goddess at birth. Even before birth, and to a very few. She chooses who will see, not I. And she does not give her reasons." And she squeezed his hand like a parent with a disappointed child.

He could feel her hand now, small, almost hidden in his grasp, warm and full of comfort. The feeling was so strong he had to look to see that she was not truly there. He was sorry for that, longing for the solace of her presence. She would know what to do, what to say to make things better, but she was miles away in her Vancouver wilderness.

The vision of the killings disturbed him deeply, not for what it was-he had expected such brutal violence-but for the fact that he'd seen it at all. He had the uncomfortable knowledge of having gone someplace dangerous where he was not supposed to venture, like a child swimming in a lake against his parent's wishes. There were certain things that were of the Goddess and should not be tampered with, and Richard had a chill feeling in his gut he'd somehow done exactly that. He'd swum deep in the forbidden lake, and looked up at the world above through its changing waters, and seen what he should not. A shiver crept its slow way up his spine at the very thought. Damn the animal blood for taking him where he was not meant to go.

But it had shown him what Michael had seen, felt, and thought, which could be... Michael. Where was he?

The car's interior illuminated as Richard opened the rear driver's door, and in the harsh light he could see the boy was sitting safely belted in the back seat. He slid partway in for a better look at the child.

"Michael, it's Uncle Richard. Can you hear me? Michael?"

No response. The silence rang deafeningly through the still night air. Those dead blue eyes gazed straight ahead, quite unaware of him. Richard stroked the boy's hair, whispering his name again. Still no response. Little wonder, considering what he'd been through. The vision had been disturbing enough for Richard, but poor Michael had witnessed the real thing. Richard would have to get him help.

He eased out and closed the rear door, the abrupt darkness swallowing everything. No streetlamps this far away from town. Usually he didn't mind the lack of artificial lights, but craved them now. Lights meant that he wouldn't feel so damned alone.

But before he could get inside to drive, the cramping nausea hit again, and Richard folded over with the hurt, leaning desperately against the car, sweat breaking out in great drops on his brow and falling to mix in tiny muddy puddles on the dry earth. His body ached in every pore, and his vision swam. God, but this was too much. He'd have to look after himself before he could look after the boy. He still needed human blood to dispel the last of the alien poison. He had to get back to New Karnak. Quickly.

After an age the pain eased, and Richard was able to stand upright and get in the car. It slipped easily into drive, and he set the rental right on the pavement, heading south. Driving was a huge effort. At first he thought the power steering was out, then realized it was simply his own physical weakness that made holding the wheel such an exertion.

He was healed for the most part, though. That was something to celebrate. The broken leg felt normal again, and the angry red skin marking his burns had faded to a less alarming pink. Even his torn-out nails had grown back. The blood had done its miracle, but the aftermath was still playing a devil's game with his insides.

His hands trembled, and whenever a wave hit he leaned forward toward the windshield, unable to sit up straight, resting his chin on the wheel. The car wandered alarmingly, and he found himself having to ease up on the gas during bouts so as not to go off the road before he could correct things. He was doing no more than twenty. At this rate it would take hours to get home.

He wiped sweat from his eyes. Tried to concentrate. He kept drifting in and out, always unaware of the onset of the dark mist, and waking with alarm at its retreat.

He wrenched the car over once more from the wrong side of the road. I should stop, he thought, but knew he could not. His sight blurred fitfully, and he shook his head in a feeble attempt to clear his vision. Then he noticed bright lights in the rearview mirror flashing red to blue, red to blue, and gave an inward groan. Why were they always there when you didn't want them? He heard the siren wail a short, imperious warning, and obedient to the law, he eased the car onto the shoulder and coasted to a halt. The police car did the same, leaving its headlights on. Richard could just make out the vague form of the officer inside and his heart gave a small leap. His initial dismay at the intrusion evaporated. This might be exactly what he needed.

But he was so weak. If only he could sleep. The steering wheel was mercifully cool against his forehead. His eyes fell shut.

He heard a car door slam and slow footsteps on the gravel of the shoulder. Then a flashlight beam shone red through his lids. He rolled his head to one side and squinted out the open window. It was a woman, clipboard in one hand, flashlight in the other, her uniform and badge proclaiming her to be a member of Addison's finest.

"Good morning, sir," she said in an overly loud voice. The sort of voice law enforcement professionals always used to command attention. It did not jibe well with the polite words. "How are you doing?"

There was nothing to be gained trying to form a reply to that query. He was doing rather badly, thank you very much; she should be able to see that for herself.

She shone the light around the interior and caught a good long look at Richard. He stank of smoke and sweat. His clothes were mostly torn away and what remained was either scorched or covered in dried blood. Her breath escaped in a non-professional hiss. "Jesus!"

Richard could see her silver name tag now against the dark blue of her shirt: Henebry.

"I'm just a little tired, officer..." Good God, what lunatic had answered for him just then? He could do better than that.

"Sir? Sir, I'm going to ask you to get out of your car."

Very well, ask away.

"Sir-I want you to get out of the car. Can you do that?"

I'd really rather not if you don't mind.

"Come on. Get out right now." Still speaking loud and clear. She had a no-nonsense quality about her that in other circumstances, Richard was sure he would find appealing. But here and now it irritated the hell out of him. It was probably the way she acted as though he were slightly deaf and somewhat backward mentally. Perhaps she thought he was drunk.

"Maybe I should rest here for a little while..."

"I said get out of the car, sir, and I mean right now." She was new. Richard could tell that without asking. There was an edge in her voice that gave her away, that and a bead of sweat on her upper lip. "Come on, open the door."

She was starting to grate on his nerves, ordering him about so politely, but he could also be teeth-grittingly courteous. Richard attempted what he hoped would pass for a smile of compliance and pulled on the handle. It took some work to push the door open, then turn and get his legs out. He finally managed to boost clear, standing more or less upright facing her.

Officer Henebry was solid and fit in her uniform. He towered over her.

Henebry backed off a step, still holding her clipboard. Her other hand rested on the big semi-auto strapped to her hip. Considering his appalling state he couldn't blame her. "Are you all right? You want to tell me what happened to you?" she asked, spacing the words.

Not in this lifetime I don't. Richard shook his head, gathering his scattered thoughts. He should have taken care of this by now. His usual time for dealing with traffic violations was less than a minute. Ah, but this was no simple avoidance of a speeding ticket.

"Are you injured? What happened to you?" she demanded, shining her light on him. "Who's the little boy in the back seat?"

The reminder of Michael snapped him to full alertness. For the moment. How long would it last? Never mind that, get to work.

"I want to see some identification. You got a driver's license?"

"Yes, officer. It's in my wallet." He slowly reached toward his back pocket. Henebry, on guard, tensed. Her grasp tightened on her gun, ready to pull it free.

Richard turned slightly, so she could see his every move, and took out his wallet using two fingers. He could not fault her for her caution. Aside from domestic disputes, the most disagreeable calls cops generally faced were investigating driving violations. Especially at night.

"Take it out of the wallet, please," she told him. The whole situation was wearing thin. Could this downturn possibly be another unpleasant hallucination? He wasn't certain. Better to play along. A docile attitude might reassure her somewhat. Things would work better for them both if she was relaxed.

He glanced back at her car to see if she was alone. She was. Better and better. Then he noticed something that would put a decided crimp in things. The vehicle had a surveillance camera set in the grill. The picture would likely be of poor quality, but enough to later identify him. It would have recorded his rental's tags as well. The paranoia of the twentieth century was often defensible, but now it was just bloody inconvenient.

He pulled his Canadian driving license clear and held it out to her. "Here it is, officer. I think you'll find it all in order."

She was intent on taking it from him, but for a moment, for a very crucial moment, she looked him in the eyes.

All he had to do was smile. He summoned enough strength to make a profound impression. The wrong kind, as it happened.

Her service semi-auto appeared almost as if by magic in her hand. It was a Glock, its dark plastic surface dully reflecting first the blue, then the red of the prowl car's flashing lights. Henebry pointed it steadily at him. Right between his eyes to be exact. He felt a sudden tightness in his chest as the memory of Michael's horrific vision superimposed itself on the present time. Richard had to fight to maintain control, to keep himself from running away.

"Put your hands on your head!"

Funny, his smile was usually enough to win anyone over. But then he usually wasn't clad in burned, bloodstained rags and... oh. Oh, dear.

His corner teeth were out. No wonder she'd reacted so strongly. His beast could have that effect on people.

Henebry slapped the clipboard on the hood of his car, and shook out a pair of handcuffs. Richard was as adventurous as the next man, but he didn't think she had any intention of putting them to some sort of erotic use.

"Lean on the car. Place your hands on the roof and lean on them."

"How can I do that and still have them on my head?" he inquired, annoyed again.

"Just turn around and put them flat on the roof." She said it with a sense of satisfaction, almost as if quoting from some obscure training test.

Richard grimly struggled to think of how to delay things. Once she got those cuffs on him he'd not be able to break free of them; he was too weak for that. Then he would be stuck in the endless quagmire of officialdom.

"I've done nothing wrong, officer." He was too weak for some things, but his beast gave him one last little reserve to draw from.

"Don't argue with me; turn-"

He could yet move very fast.

She had no chance to finish. Between one eye blink and the next he snagged the gun from her grasp. He caught her before she could react, swung her around, pressing her against the rental car with his body. She recovered quickly, though, and started to struggle, but abandoned that when he made her aware the gun was pressed hard on her temple.

He hated doing it, but it was a necessary compensation for his feeble state. It also commanded her undivided attention.

The scent of her sudden fear jumped at him. How tantalizing that was to his beast.