Sepulchre

  From ahead, Mather thought he heard a scuffling.

  Palusinski came out into the courtyard, the pounding rain welcome on his face and head, even though huge droplets spattered his glasses and distorted his vision. Lightning pearled everything before him, dazzling him through the water spots on his lenses so that he blinked rapidly. Whipping off the spectacles, the movement accompanied by a peal of thunder, he hurried across the flagstones. The Pole had no desire to find his way through Kline's private rooms in order to reach the main doors of the house: this way was more direct, and the sooner he was away from the madness inside Neath, the better he would like it. His own acute sense of survival told him some kind of reckoning was at hand for Kline—mój Pan, oh Lord and Master!—and he, Janusz Palusinski, did not want to be around for the consequences.

  But as he passed the center fountain, a burning liquid sprayed his face.

  When he stopped to brush at the stinging with his hand, he felt a stickiness on his cheek. He could feel it eating into his skin. He peered shortsightedly at the fountain, and there seemed to be shapes contorting from the stonework, rising from the brimming basin, writhing among the ornamentation.

  Palusinski uttered a startled cry and began to back away. Gówno! This couldn't be! The fountain was a dead thing, defunct, slimed and blocked, an extinct spring! Yet he could discern a bubbling outflow catching reflections from window lights around the yard. And liquid dribbled sluggishly from the carved spouts that, in their decay, resembled gargoyles. And these monsters themselves were moving, twisting as if to tear themselves free from the stonework, hatching from wombs of masonry, spitting their bile of burning substance, the whole structure gushing unnatural life.

  Palusinski slipped as he turned to run, his knees smacking sickeningly against the flagstones. His spectacles flew from his grasp, one lens cobwebbing fine cracks as it struck.

  The Pole scrabbled away on hands and knees, too much in haste to search for his broken glasses and too afraid to look back at the quivering fountain. He sobbed when something touched his leg, a curling caress that somehow scorched even though there was no firmness, no strength in its grip. He pushed himself up, moving forward all the time, blundering toward the open doorway on the other side of the courtyard where light was shining outward.

  He blinked away wetness. There was someone else in the corridor, limping toward him. Palusinski reacted instinctively and with his natural sense of self-preservation. He drew out the metal bar he always carried inside his coat and launched himself at the advancing figure.

  Mather noted the crazed wildness in the other man's eyes, and saw light catching the shiny weapon being raised, ready to strike. He came to a halt and pointed his cane at the bald man's chest.

  Palusinski sneered at the other's ineffectual weapon, realizing there was nothing to fear in this old man confronting him, the only real terror being out there in the courtyard and the underground chamber he had just left. He grabbed the end of the cane and pulled it toward himself, sure that it would be easy to wrench it from the frail grasp. The metal bar had reached its zenith, was trembling in his hand, ready to plunge downward against the man's skull. He barely heard the faint click.

  Mather had pressed the tiny button in the handle of the cane, and the wooden casing slid from the long, slender blade, his would-be assailant unsheathing the sword himself. The Shield Planner took no chances, for he could see the murder in this wild man's eyes.

  He lunged forward, the sword piercing the bald man's chest, melting through, entering his heart and still not stopping.

  Palusinski looked in surprise at the other man. The pain came only when the sword was swiftly withdrawn.

  He sank to the floor, a casual gesture as if he merely wanted to rest for a moment. Janusz Palusinski lay down and, as his mind wandered toward death, he felt he was among other recumbent bodies. He was no longer inside the corridor of the house, but in the dimly lit hut a long, long way from there, and a long time ago.

  Those skeletal forms around him were sitting up and grinning their welcome, for they had been waiting many years. One even crawled over to touch the young Janusz's face with bony fingers. Janusz lay there, unable to move, and he wondered why unseen hands were pulling at his clothing. And he wondered why there was no pain when teeth gnawed into his plump belly.

  No, there was no pain at all.

  Just the nightmare that he knew would go on forever . . .

  50

  SHADOWS AND IMAGININGS

  Halloran remained perfectly still, staring up into the eyes of the dying gunman.

  The weapon wavered in the air, trying to home in on its target. But the exertion was too much, and too late. Danny Shay rolled onto his side to make one last determined effort, but the gun was far too heavy for someone with only seconds to live. For a moment his arm hung over the stairway, the weapon loose in his grip. Then Shay's eyes closed and he knew he would never open them again.

  "Dear God . . ." he began, the plea cut short when even his voice lost its strength.

  He toppled from the stairs onto the damp floor, his landing relaxed, for he was already dead.

  Wind tearing in from the passageway above ruffled Halloran's hair. The light stirred, shimmered, many of the candle flames snuffed by the breeze so that shadows stole forward from the alcoves. The ancient worshipers watched on, stone eyes dispassionate. And there seemed to be other onlookers within those darkened arches, but these were forms of no substance, observers that could never be defined by light for they were of the imagination even though they existed outside the mind. Halloran was intensely aware of their watching.

  He turned toward the altar where the bloated corpse continued to pump blood. Cora had moved away, her shoulders soaked a deep red; she looked imploringly at Halloran, as if silently begging him to take her away from this madness. When she saw the coldness in him, Cora became inert.

  Halloran would not allow emotion to hold sway. Not for the moment. He was confused, uncertain of his feelings for Cora. She had touched him, made him vulnerable once more.

  And naturally, he had paid the price. He told himself she was an innocent used by someone who existed only for corruption. Yet . . . the thought persisted . . . yet there had to have been some part of her that was susceptible.

  "Don't dare to judge me, Liam." She spoke quietly, but with defiance. "Not you, not someone like you."

  He understood her meaning.

  Thunder rumbled through the passageway, the sound spreading out into the chamber, seeming to tremble the walls. Dust sifted down from the ceiling to congeal in the puddles on the floor.

  And in one small slick of black water lay the dried husk that was an embalmed heart.

  And those unseen but fearfully imagined forms were emerging from the alcoves.

  Halloran sensed their movement at first, and only when he looked did they take on a nebulous kind of reality. These were as the things from the lake, and they shuffled forward, eager to embrace. They were of him, the creatures mere reflections of the dark side of his inner self, manifestations of his own frailty, his own corruption. Hadn't Kline, himself, explained that to him?

  He felt weakened. He staggered as if struck. He spun around.

  More of these creations of the subconscious were slipping from between the statues, winding their way through, advancing on him. Yet each time he focused on one, it became formless, a swirling, vaporous nullity. His mind seemed squeezed, as though invisible tentacles had insinuated themselves into the orifices of his body, clogging them, sliding inward to capture his thoughts.

  He clapped his hands against his temples, shaking his head to free himself of these tenuous intruders. He twisted, bent under their weight. Cora was trying to reach him, but something had hold of her, something not visible that tore at her robe, exposing her shoulders, her breasts that were smeared with blood. She was screaming as she struggled, but he could not hear her.

  Halloran stumbled forward, desperate to help her, wanting that more than an
ything else, heedless of his own plight, the invasion of his own body. But it was useless. He was being dragged down by these seeping infiltrators who sought their own origins.

  He could not hear her screams but he could hear Kline's laughter.

  Its cracked sound mocked him, tormented, as Kline overwhelmed him with imaginings, the thoughts swelling with all the badness that had been drawn into that underground room, the malignancy that had dwelled inside the dead men, released now by someone who acted as instigator and catalyst, someone who knew the ancient secrets of the Cabala, who understood their potency. Felix Kline . . .

  Where was he? Where was Kline?

  Where else but inside your head? came the silent reply.

  "That can't be," denied Halloran aloud, his hands over his ears as though they could cut out the sly voice that was, indeed, inside his head.

  Oh, but it can. A familiar snigger. / can be anywhere. Didn't I demonstrate that the first time we met?

  "I can stop you!"

  You can? Please try. A good-humored invitation.

  Halloran's legs buckled as white-hot irons pressed against the back of his eyeballs.

  There. Painful? I can do more than that. You deserve to suffer more.

  Halloran looked up from his kneeling position. Kline was standing a short distance away, facing him, eyes closed, scarlet hands tight against his own head, its skin all but gone, the flesh that had been beneath exposed and livid. He was unsteady as shadows that were something more than shadows writhed around him. Kline's mouth was open in an agonized grimace.

  "It's too late!" Halloran managed to shout. "You're weak. Your power isn't the same." And as he said the words, Halloran felt the slightest easing of pressure, the merest cooling of the fire. Pain immediately came back to him.

  You're so wrong, Halloran, whispered the insidious voice inside his head. My only problem is whether I finish you quickly or take my time, enjoy myself a little.

  But there was a gasp, a sound only in Halloran's mind. Kline was reeling, his hands leaving blotches of scraped flesh as they ran down his face.

  "Halloran!" A piercing scream, and from Kline's lips.

  The psychic's eyes opened, blackness filling them. They rested on Halloran's. "I can hurt you," Kline rasped. "I can make your heart seize up with the horrors I'll show you." His eyes closed once more and the snigger was back inside Halloran's mind.

  Nightmares began to form, and gargoyles drifted from them. But these were tangible, on the outside of his thoughts, for when they touched him their fingernails were like razor blades, and he could smell the stench of their breath, dank and foul, like the old sea caves where mammoth creatures of the deep had been abandoned by the tide to die. They clung to him, and their lips—not lips, they had no such things as lips —their openings pressed against his face to kiss.

  He felt the aching in his arms. The tightening of his chest, as fear began to win through. No! They were in his mind—in Kline's mind! They couldn't hurt him!

  But they could.

  For where they touched him, so they drew out his life. He could feel living beings inside his veins, blocking the flow, expanding so that they burst the tubes and his life's liquid poured uselessly into the cavities of his body. He sagged, slumped on his haunches, and he acknowledged Kline's assertion that he could coax a victim's mind to murder its own host. Halloran was unable to resist, the images of Kline's creation were too strong, too real! His forehead bowed to the wet stone floor.

  This time the roar was not thunder.

  It jolted Halloran into awareness, a confusion of senses muddling his brain, a bedlam of emotions causing him to cry out. Now the worst of his pain was from his hip where the bullet that had passed through the Arab had scraped his own flesh. Blood there was soaking his torn jacket. And the soreness around his throat was a relief rather than a discomfort, for it was, like the throbbing pain in his side, an indication of true reality.

  Halloran opened his eyes and looked up. The monsters had fled. The shadows were but shadows.

  Kline was lying on the floor, and there was no movement from him.

  Halloran pushed himself to his feet and stood for a while, his body bent forward, hands resting against his legs, waiting for his strength to return. He searched for Cora.

  He found her crouched over the dead gunman, her robe in tatters around her waist, marks and bloodstains on her pale skin. In her shaking hand was the revolver, smoke still curling from its barrel. She was staring at Kline, eyes wide, her expression lifeless.

  "Cora . . ." Halloran said as he staggered toward her. He knelt on one knee and took the gun from her, laying it to one side. "I think you used his last bullet," he told her as he gently pulled the remnants of her robe around her shoulders. She turned her face to him, and apprehension filtered through the numbness. She murmured something he didn't quite catch, but it did not matter. He raised her to him and held her close, kissing her matted hair, his arms tight around her.

  "It's done, Cora," he assured her quietly. "Finished. I'll get you away from this place, as far away as possible."

  She sank into him, and the wetness from her eyes dampened his collar. He ran a hand beneath her hair and his fingers caressed the back of her neck.

  He felt her stiffen.

  He heard the slithering.

  Halloran turned.

  Felix Kline was sliding on his belly through puddles on the floor, leaving a trail of decayed skin and blood in his wake, the raw flesh of his skinless face and hands puckered and cracked, a glistening redness oozing from lesions. Facial muscles were clearly defined in grouped ridges, and tendons stood proud on his hands, with veins stretched as bluish rivulets. His breathing came as a strained, animal-like coughing as he pushed himself toward the blackened lump that rested in filthy water at the center of the room.

  He was almost there, one hand extended, quivering as it reached for the relic that once was a heart within a body, his breath becoming harsher, a drool of spittle sinking to the floor from his gaping mouth.

  Three feet away from the pool in which the ancient heart lay.

  Push.

  Two feet away. A piteous moaning from him as his pain-wracked body scraped against the flagstones. Tears as the suffering became too much to bear.

  Push.

  Through the wetness.

  Halloran rose, softly taking away Cora's hand from his arm as she tried to cling to him.

  Push.

  Not far now.

  Desperation gleamed in Kline's dark eyes.

  A few more inches.

  Push.

  Nearly there.

  His fingers stretched, sifting through the dirty water, almost touching the withered husk.

  A shadow over him.

  A lifted foot.

  Kline sobbed as Halloran crushed the heart into the stone floor.

  51

  END OF THE STORM

  Mather peered out into the courtyard.

  Thank God the storm's easing, he thought. Lightning flashes were mere reflections, with thunder following long moments after as distant rumblings. The rain had lost its force, had become a pattering. He could just make out what must have been an impressive fountain in an age gone by, its structure now misshapen, worn by time. It glistened from the rain but had no vitality of its own.

  He was naturally concerned over the dead man lying behind him in the corridor. Mather realized that the man he had just killed was Janusz Palusinski, one of Kline's own bodyguards. The Planner had met Palusinski earlier that day, but the mad-eyed creature who had rushed at him in the corridor bore scant resemblance to that person: without his distinctive wire-framed spectacles and because of his drenched condition and the sheer lunacy of his expression, the Pole was another character entirely.

  Why the devil had the man tried to attack him? He surely must have known who the Planner was. Unless, of course, the reason was that Palusinski was in league with the intruders, yet another traitor within the Magma organization. There had certai
nly been no doubt about his murderous intent—Mather was too experienced in the ways of combat not to have recognized it. Well, the matter would be cleared up soon enough.

  There was activity across the courtyard. An open door there, vague light glowing from it. Shadows, figures. Someone was coming through the doorway.

  Mather's grip tightened on the sword-stick. He ducked back inside when he heard footsteps behind him. One of his operatives was hurrying along the corridor. The Planner raised a finger to his lips and the operative slowed his pace, approaching quietly. He examined the bald-headed man whose chest was weeping blood.

  Mather returned his attention to the two people who had stepped out into the courtyard, one of them apparently supporting the other.

  "Wait there," he instructed the operative when he recognized the couple as they made their way through the drizzle. Mather limped out to meet them, movement awkward without his cane; he quietly called Liam's name.

  "Oh, good Lord," he said when he realized the state they were in.

  Halloran expressed no surprise at finding Mather at Neath. In the light from the courtyard window, his face betrayed no emotion at all.

  "Get her away from here," Halloran said curtly, pressing Cora into the Planner's arms.

  "What's happened, Liam?" Mather demanded to know. "I've just been forced to kill one of Kline's bodyguards, the Polish fellow."

  There was the slightest hint of a smile in Halloran's eyes. "Trust me like you've never trusted me before," was all he said. "It's over now, but I want you to take Cora out of the house. Wait for me by the main gates."

  "Liam, that's—"

  "Please do it."

  Mather paused. "And you?"

  "There's something I have to take care of."

  With that, he turned away from Mather and the girl to walk back through the soft rain to the doorway from where he and Cora had emerged.

  52