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CopyrightAphelion:TalesfromtheDarkRecessesTimesChangeOffFleshReflectionOneMistakeSerere,APrelude

Aphelion:TalesfromtheDarkRecesses

ByAndyFrankham-Allen

Copyright2014byAndyFrankham-Allen

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Aphelion:TalesfromtheDark

RecessesAndyFrankham-

Allen

TimesChangeHenry Ward Beecher oncesaid,“clothesandmannersdonotmaketheman;but,whenhe is made, they greatlyimprove his appearance.” Itwas true.Appearancewasallimportant in the world ofmortal man, and as heregarded himself in themirror, Iago smiled. He wasthe epitome of man; everymuscle perfectly toned, his

eyesexactlytherightcolortogo with his skin tone, hairfine but thick, nailsmanicured toperfection.Andhis manners, beyondreproach.

Nowomanwould be abletoresisthim,asever.

Once again itwas time togoforth,andmultiply.

*Sex on a stick. Therewas

just no other term for it.When Caitlyn first saw himthat’s exactly the phrase thatpoppedintoherhead;secondtothat,shejustknewshehadtogetthisguy’snumber.

She had been with hergirlfriends enjoying amacchiato when she hadspottedhim.Hewaswalkingin her general direction, butshe liked to think he wasapproachingher.Inreality,he

was probably going to orderhisownshotofcaffeinefromthecounterbehindher,buthedidthrowaverycandidwinkher way as he passed hertable. Of all the girlfriendshuddled around the littletable, it was Niki who firstspottedCaitlyn’sdistraction.

“Do you really think so?”Niki whispered in her ear,leaning incloseso theotherswouldn’thear.

Caitlyn smiled broadly.Howcould shenot?“I reallyreally do,” she said. Sheoffered Niki a wink andexcused herself from thetable.Asshewalked towardsthe counter, she heard thecurious whispers of hergirlfriends,andNikiactingasif she knew nothing. Ofcourse, soon they’d all spotthe hunk of sexiness andthey’d realize.But by then itwould be too late; he would

behers.Shestoppedatthecounter,

standing behind the man,pretending to look at thecakes in the display cabinet,but reallyadmiringhis ratherfit ass. Dark blue jeans withwhite stitching clung tightlytohisperfectlyshapedbubblebutt, the seam riding highbetween his legs. For asecond Caitlyn actually hadto look at the cakes,

otherwise she knew she’dneed to start fanning herself.Back under control sheinched forward, almosttouchinghim.

The girl behind the tillmust have noticed, becauseshecastadarklookCaitlyn’sway.Caitlynjustsmiledbackin response. She didn’t care;if the girl had eyes thatworkedshe’drealizetheneedtodo anything to try andget

the attention of the man. Atthemoment hewas simply acustomer, but if the girl hadplayed her cards right hecould have become so muchmore. Caitlyn wonderedwhere such thoughts camefrom.

He spoke to the cashier,and moved on towards thecounter by the espressomachine,where his lattewasbeingprepared.

“CanIhelpyou?”thegirlaskedCaitlyn.

Caitlyn had to drag hereyes away from the man.“What? Ah, no,” she said,knowing she should at leastpretend to consider wantingsomething. Other than thatsexybeast,ofcourse.

“Okay,well, if you’d liketo move along, I do haveother customers, you know,”thegirlsaid,icypolitenessin

everyword.Caitlyn opened hermouth

tospeak,hermindrushingtofind some kind of excuse toremainatthecounter,closetotheman.Asitturnedout,theman himself gave her areason.

“CanIgetyouadrink?”Caitlyn turned her head

towards him, smiling inresponse to his own bright

smile. He was perfect, noother way to put it. His skinwas almost bronze, his hairraven black, and his eyes,deeply set in a face thatlooked like it had beensculptured by the angels,wereasbrownasmocha.Andhissmile…Pearlywhiteteethfilled that smile, broad andwelcoming. Caitlyn almostfelt weak at the knees justlooking at him. He steppedforward, and offered his

hand. Automatically shereached out with her ownhand,andheleanedoverandkissed the back of it. It wassuchanoldfashionedgesture.Caitlyn was certain that noone had ever done such athingtoherbefore.Helookedto be no more than twenty-five,yetsuchan introductionsuited aman twicehisyears.Caitlynapproved.

“And to whom do I owe

the pleasure?” he asked, histones speaking of Easternorigins, although not beingmuch good at geographyCaitlyn could never hope topinpoint the source. But itdidn’tmatter,hisEnglishwasperfect.

“Caitlyn,” she began, hervoice almost a whisper. Shecoughed demurely(demurely! She had neverdone anything demurely in

her entire life. Until now!),and tried again. “CaitlynEaves.”

“A beautiful name, for abeautiful lady,” he said, thewords rolling off his tonguewith such delight. “Possiblyderived from katharos, theGreekforpure?”

Caitlyn had no idea. Sosheoptedfor,“possibly.”Notthat the word pure had everbeen applied to her before.

Unlesspurevixencounted.“IamsimplyIago.”Caitlyn tried that name

out. “Ee-A-gaw?” she saidslowly, and grinned again.“Iago is a nice name. It’sdistinctive.”

“Yes,” Iago agreed, stillsmilingather.“Distinctiveisgood. I like distinctive.Excuse me,” he added as hewascalledtopickuphislatte.

Caitlynwaited,quitetakenbyhis manners. Normally shewouldn’t care less, after allshewashardlythemostcouthpersonontheplanet,andshelikedhermen tobemen,notpansies. But with Iago itseemed different. Suited himlikeanoldcoat.Andbesides,unlikeHunter at home, therewas nothing feminine aboutIago.Hewasallman,andashe reached for his latte, shewatched his t-shirt pull tight

against his well-toned torso,feeling her pulse racing thatbitmore.Ohyes,allman.

Onceheheld the tallmugin his bronze hands, Iagolooked back at Caitlyn.“Wouldyoucareforadrink?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’vealready had one,” she said,glancingbackatthetablehergirlfriendswerestillsittingat.Iago looked over with asmile, and Caitlyn noticed

almost all the girls bat theireyelids, grinning like idiots.ExceptNiki,whojustwinkedatCaitlynandreturnedtoherdecafFrappuccino.

“I see,” Iago said slowly.“Then perhaps I can troubleyou for your company? Thatis, ifyour friendsdon’tmindmestealingyou.”

“Mind?” Caitlyn almostspluttered. They’d bedownright jealous, but she

wasn’t about to reveal thatIago. “I’m sure they’llunderstand.”

“Excellent. Then, perhapsyoucanintroducemetothemanothertime?”

Caitlyn wasn’t sure whyhe’dwant that, and itwasn’tlike she intended to sharehim, but she shrugged andmutteredan“okay.”

At this Iago laughed.

“Perhapsthattablethere?”“Asgoodasany,”Caitlyn

saidandallowedIagotoleadtheway.Afterall,shewantedtogetthebestviewofhisassas he walked. She followed,and glanced back at the girlbehind the till,whowasnowstaring daggers in Caitlyn’sdirection. Too late, hun,Caitlyn thought, much toolate.He’sminenow.

*

“I’m not so sure aboutthis, love,” Hunter said, asCaitlyn opened the door toleave.

Caitlyn looked back, andoffered him a reassuringsmile. She did love Hunter,would never have shared aflat with him if not, but hewas a bit of worrier. “Don’tbedaft.Whatcangowrong?Amanwithsuchcharm…andlooks.”Shestopped,andfora

moment hermindwent backto the coffee shop, and theway Iago’s biceps workedunder his tight top. “Whew,didImentionhowhotheis?”

Hunter had to laugh atthat. “Yes, once or twice.Feel a bit jealous now,actually.”

“As you should, darlingboy, as you should.” Sheleaned over and pecked himon the cheek. “Be seeing

you,”shesaidandwalkedoutoftheflat.

She glanced back at theconvertedterracedhouse,andoffered Hunter a little wave.He tentatively waved back,his face still carrying thesame look of worry. Caitlynshook her head. Silly boy, itwasn’t like this was the firstdate she’d been on. Andbesides, as Iago hadpromised, there he was now.

Standing beside the blackcab,dooropenforher.

“Yourcarriageawaits,”hesaid,assheapproached.

Caitlyn fluttered hereyelidsathim,andheflashedher his biggest smile.As shestepped into the cab he tookherhand inhisandkissed it.Oh yes, it was going to bewonderfulnight.

*

Hunter didn’t like it.Caitlynwas acting very odd,even for her. He had knownher for a few years and shehadneverbeenone for lady-like behavior, but sincereturning from work she’dbeen very prim and proper,like she’d become some sortof fairytale princess all of asudden; endlessly chattingabout this guy who hadtotallyblownhermind.Now,Hunterwasmore than happy

to see Caitlyn falling forsomeonedecent;afterall,shehadfallenforsomesketsoverthe years, but somethingaboutthisdidn’tringtrue.

Although, Hunter had toadmit, having now caughtsight of the enigmatic Iago,that Caitlyn was right abouthis looks. He was gorgeous,of the drop dead variety.Even from this distanceHuntercouldseethat.

Heremainedashewasfora while, standing in thedoorway, watching the cabpull away, images of Iagofillinghismind.

Yes,hewasdefinitelyhot,and it seemed such a shameto waste such an amazingmanonsomeonelikeCaitlyn.

With a flourish Hunterspun on his heels andflouncedbackintothehouse.Caitlynmightthinkshewasa

princess now, but he’d showherwhatrealroyaltywas.

*As promised, Iago took

her to a recently openedFrench restaurant just offRegent’s Street; GrandRestaurer de Londres. Thefood was divine, although abit pricey for her, but Iagoassuredher thatshedeservednothing less,sowhowassheto argue? Caitlyn stifled a

giggleatthat.Once again she knew she

was acting a little unusual inIago’spresence,butshecouldnothelpit,hesimplybroughtthe inner lady out of her.Untilthecoffeeshopatlunchshe didn’t even realize therewas a lady in her. And yet,here she was, sitting in theplush restaurant, using thecorrectcutlery,napkinspreadout on her lap, and sipping

expensive Cuvée AlexandraRosé. Yes! Actually sipping,notdowninginonego.

“How is the champagne?”Iagoasked.

Caitlyn lowered the glass,and went to speak, but thebubbles from the champagnehithernoseandshelaughed.Iago smiled at herindulgently, and reached hishandacrossthetable.Heheldher hand gently, massaging

thebackof itwithhis ringedthumb.

“I know it is mostimproper,butImustsayIdofeel like I should invite youbacktomyhoteltonight.”

Caitlyn blushed, at themere thought of spendingalone-time with Iago. Thegirls would be so jealoustomorrow. “I wouldn’t beagainst such an idea,” shesaidsoftly.

Iago nodded his headonce.“Thenweareagreed.”

*From his vantage point

across the road from theGrandRestaurerdeLondres,HuntercouldseeCaitlynandIagoattheirwindowtable,heholding her hand while theytalked, his eyes never onceleavingherface.

Hunter didn’t like it.

Should have been him inthere with Iago, being thecentre of his world, notCaitlyn.

Somehow he had toseparatethetwoofthem.

He narrowed his eyes inthought. An opportunitywould present itself. He justhad to be patient. Although,Hunter wondered, how longcouldhebepatientfor?

*Food finished, bill paid,

the two of them headed forthedoorswherethemaîtred’was waiting for them withtheir coats. Once Iago hadslipped into his, he openedCaitlyn’s and allowed her toslipherarms into thesleeveswhile themaîtred’heldontoher purse. She thanked theman,andturnedtoIago,whowasholdingthedooropenfor

her.“Afteryou,”hesaid.“Why thank you, sir,”

Caitlyn responded, andmadeto leave. She stopped, herhand holding her stomach asthe acids within loudlydigested some food. Shelooked around the restaurantin horror, her cheeks turningred. Normally a bit of gaswouldnothavebotheredher,“better out than in” as her

mum would say, but withIagohere…

“The oysters might havebeenalittletoorichforme,”she whispered, and Iagonodded in sympathy. But hesaid nothing, which troubledCaitlyn even more than herunrulystomach.

“The powder room is thisway,Madame,” themaîtred’said,onearmsweepinginthegeneraldirectionofthelady’s

room.With a flush, Caitlyn

excusedherself.*

Withdelighthehadbarelyfeltbefore,HunterwatchedasIago stepped out of therestaurantalone.Therewouldnever be a better time, hedecided, and rushed acrossthe road. Suchwas his focusthathebarelynoticed thecar

racing towards him, but thehonking of the horn alertedhim in time and hewas abletojustavoidbeinghit.

He stepped onto thepavement, smiling at Iago,who, he noticed, had beenwatchinghimthewholetime.Iago frowned, confusionsweepingacrosshisface.

“Hiya,”Huntersaid.Iago stepped forward, his

hand reaching out. “Youare…”

“Hunter James. How youdoing,love?”

Iago’s hand stoppedwithincentimetersofHunter.Heglanceddownathishand,momentarily uncertain aboutsomething. “You are not awoman,” he said, lookingbackup,hisdeepbrowneyesprobing Hunter’s own babyblues,“andyet,somehow…”

“Well, I am sometimes,”Hunter pointed out, “if thathelps.”

“Most perplexing. I havenever…”

Hunter grinned. This wascalledknockingamanoffhisfeet. He’d impressed a fewmenovertheyears,butneverquiteleftthemspeechless.Hestepped towards Iago, butIago pulled back quickly,shakinghishead.

“No, this is… No.”Abruptly Iago grabbedHunter by his shoulders.Hunter closed his eyes,feeling Iago’s breath on hisface.Utopiawas calling himnow. “You must leave, thiscannotbe.”

“Huh?”Hunteropenedhiseyes, and found his nosealmost touching Iago’s.“Don’t be silly, love, youknowyouwantme,”hesaid,

surprising himself with hiswords. They were so unlikehim,butdeepdownheknewthey were true. Hunterfrowned a little. “I can feelit.”

Iago’s eyes darted overHunter’s face. “I do, but…No. Wrong. This is allwrong.”

He released Hunter andstepped back sharply.“Leave!” he hissed, turning

awayashedidso.Hunter wanted to step

forward, turn Iago around,showthemanhowmuchtheywanted each other. Butsomething in him broke; therejection from Iago was toomuch. Trying to hold back atorrent of sudden tears,Hunterscrambledaway.

*Caitlyn steppedout of the

restaurant to find Iagolooking down the road, hiseyessearchingforsomething,a deep frown creasing hisusually beautiful face. Shelooked to see what he waslooking for, but there wasnothing, just the usual hustleofpeopleyou’dexpecttoseeon a summer’s night byRegent’sStreet.

“Sorry about that,” shesaid, stepping intohis lineof

sight.Iago blinked, turning his

attentiontoher.Hesmiled,anactthatseemedalittleforcedto Caitlyn. She brushed theslight feeling ofdisappointment aside. “Yes,butletusnotworryaboutthatnow. Shall we go to thehotel?”

Caitlynputher arm inhisand snuggled up to him.“Yes.Let’s.”

*Together,arminarm,they

set off. Caitlyn filled withmore bubbles than thechampagne, her mind on thefun they’d have at the hotel.Iago, outwardly smiling, butinwardly still wearing hisfrown.

That man had confusedhim, drawn somethingout ofhim that only women weredesignedtodo.

Something was wrongwiththeworld.

*It had been a long time

sincehe’dfelt like thisaboutanother man, but Huntercould not get Iago out of hishead.Sure,he’dhadplentyofromances since he came outatfourteen,andmostofthemhad ended well, except forone. That had left himdevastated,andhehadsworn

to himself that he wouldnever ever again allowanothermantomakehimfeelthatway.

But last night, when Iagohadtoldhimtoleave…

He’dgonehomeandcriedlike a girl. So much and allnight long, leaving him sotired in the morning that hehad to call into work sick,spending the day in bed.Trying to sleep. And failing

miserablyatthat,too.The evening had been no

better. His day job he couldput off; if they complainedtoomuch he’d just tell themhis mother had died. Wasn’tlike he ever spoke to her, sothe guilt factor would bepretty low. But his eveningjob…much like the show, ithadtogoon.

He was a performer, andTessTosteroneneverkepther

audience waiting. Hidingbehindthemake-up,theglitz,made things easier to dealwith, although while singinghis end number, a funked uprendition of Madonna’s“Cherish,” he could havesworn he’d seen Iago’s facein the crowd. Several timesover.

Nowasheapproachedtheconvertedterracedhouse,stilldressed up asTess, hismind

was returning to Iago again.And he knew, without adoubt,thathehaditbad.

Hunter had never been abeliever in love at first sight,butafterseeingIagostandingoutside the cab… Now heknew itwaspossible.No,notjustpossible,ithadhappened.Tohim.

HejusthadtotellCaitlyn.She would understand. Ofcourse she might be a little

angry at first, sincetechnicallyIagowashers,buthe’dmakeherrealizethathislove for Iago was strongerthananylustshefelt.

Hunter closed the doorbehindhimandmade forhisbedroom,whichwas the firstdooralongthehallway,afewfeet away from the livingroom opposite. “Hi, honey,I’m home,” he called out,using his husky Tess voice.

“Bea loveandput thekettleon,I’mbeyondparched.”

Once he’d dumped hisgearinhisroomandremovedhis heels (yes, they helpedselltheillusion,buttheywerea nightmare towear—almostas bad as the tights, but hecouldn’t be arsed to removethem yet, besides his cuppawaswaiting), he headed intothelivingroom.

Where Caitlyn sat on the

sofawithIago.Hunter stopped, his heart

jumpingintohisthroat.“Oh.”Caitlyn looked up with a

huge grin, her hand flying toher mouth. “Oh god,” shesaid, struggling on to herknees so she was leaningagainst the back of the sofa.“Iwasgoingtointroduceyouto Iago, but…” She lookedHunter up and down. “WhoshouldIintroduceyouas?”

Hunter worked his mouthtospeak,butnowordswouldemerge, instead all he coulddowaslookatIago.Themanremained where he wassitting, the same look ofconfusion sweeping acrosshis features like the previousnight.

“You really are mostperplexing,”Iagosaidsoftly.

Caitlyn looked fromHunter to Iago, and back

again. Hunter didn’t like thelook in her eyes, thatsuspicious, almostaccusatory, stare. Heswallowed. “Yeah, get that alot. Excuse me, love, I justneed togoand jump in frontofabus.”

Withthatherushedouttohis bedroom, his heart amaelstrom of hurt andrejection.

*

Several hours passedbefore Hunter dared toventure out of his room.Theflatwasquiet,thelivingroomlight off. He had no idea iftheywerestill inornot,he’dmade sure his music was onfulltodrownoutanypossiblenoise the two of themmightmake together. It was badenough just imagining thethings Caitlyn would do toIago, without the soundeffectscrashingintohisroom

like some ghastlyconfirmation.

Now dressed only in hisquarter lengths and a tee, hepadded down the hallwaytowards the kitchen, carefulto notmake any sound as hepassed by Caitlyn’s room.Just in case they were inthere. He didn’t think hecould bear seeing Caitlynright now, let alone Iago.They had probably had a

good laugh at his expensealready.

Once in the kitchen hemade himself a tea and satdownatthebreakfastbar.Hesat like that for a while,cradling the hot cup until itwas not so hot, his thoughtsrunningwildatwhatIagohadprobably told Caitlyn aboutlast night outside therestaurant. He didn’t knowwhatshe’ddoaboutit,andhe

wasn’tsurehewantedtofindout.Allheknewforsurewasthat he wanted Iago, waymore than Caitlyn couldpossibly want him. Therewere things he could do forIago, to Iago, that Caitlyncouldn’t possibly competewith.IfonlyIagowouldgivehimachance.

Hesuckedbackasob,justas the door to Caitlyn’sbedroom opened a crack.He

looked up, expecting to getCaitlyn’s full wrath, butinstead out stepped Iago. Atfirst he was bathed inshadow, his outline implyingthathewasverynaked,butashe stepped into the kitchenlight Hunter saw that Iagodid, at least, have his boxerson.Hisverytightboxers.

Hunter shifteduncomfortably, folding oneleg over the other so as to

hide his reaction to Iago’sremarkably perfect body. Heswallowed hard, and offeredupa“hiya”.

“Hunter,” Iago said,stopping at the breakfast bardirectly in front of him.Hunter couldn’t help butnotice that his knee wasbarely an inch from Iago’scrotch.Againheshifted,nowevenmoreuncomfortable,theobjectofhisdesiresocloseto

him and yet, with Caitlynonlyinthenextroom,soveryfarawaystill.

“Why do you perplex meso?Sincelastnightyouhavefilledmymind, and I do notunderstand why. This hasnever happened to mebefore.”Iagoshookhishead,and sat on the other stool. “Iwas created for women, notformen,andyetIfeeldrawntoyou.”

“And not a sniff ofalcohol,eh,love?”

Iago frowned at this.“No,” he said, his voicecarrying a depth ofseriousness Hunter had onlyever heard from a priestperforminglastrights.

“Sorry,” Hunter said,trying to keep his own voiceserious. Not an easy job;humor was his natural outletwhenitcametounexpectedly

intensemomentslikethis.“Itwasajoke,youknow,theoldstory about what’s thedifference between a straightman and a gay man?” Iagolooked at him blankly. “Afew pints?” Still nothing.“Wow, thoughteveryonehadheardofthat,love.”

“I have not.” Iago leanedforward. “This world is verystrange to me; not as Iremember at all.” He sat

back,andrestedhishandsonthe breakfast bar. “I wasmade for women, they arepulled tome irresistibly; thisis a fact. But I have noticedmen looking at me, beforeandsincelastnight.Ithoughtthey looked with jealousy,angered by the perfectiontheycouldneverreach.But…Nowthereisyou.AndIseeitis not jealousy. Like withwomen,itisdesire.”

Hunter didn’t know whatto say. Instead he justsearchedIago’sfaceforsometrace of humor. Clearly themanhadtobepullinghisleg.ButIagohadthemostearnestlook that Hunter had everseen.

“Ihavefilledyourhead.”Hunter blinked, not too

sure he had heard right.“Sorry?”

“Last night, you weremarkedbyme.Sincethenallyoucando is thinkofme, isthatnotso?”

Hunter couldn’t help butsmileatthis.Wasn’tquitethewayhewouldhaveputit,butIago spoke the truth. “Yes,ever since I saw you outsidelastnightI’vewantedyou.”

“Mendesiringmen?”Iagoshook his head, his eyesclouding.“Thisiswrong.”

“Well, yes and no,”Hunter said slowly, nothavingexpectedtodelveintosuchanintensetopicsosoon.All he really wanted was toget Iago into his bedroom.Only… “It’s not wrong formentowantmen,butformeto want you. That’s wrong,love. Caitlyn is my friend, Ilove her, but…” He tried tofind the words, to explainwhat his heart was tellinghim.He shrugged. “Truth is,

Iago,sheisnotrightforyou.I am.” Hunter took a deepbreath, glad he had finallysaidit.

“Howcanyoube?Alwaysthere have been men andwomen. Two sexes, made toprocreate, bring forth newlife. I was made for women,toimpregnatethem.”

Now Hunter understood.He had met people like thisbefore,straightmenwhohad

never considered thepossibility of being bi, untilbeing confronted with thatonemanwhowasabletospintheir heads. And then theconfusionsetin.

“Times change, love,”Hunter said, and removedhimself off his stool, nolonger bothered by thestirring beneath his shorts.“Tellmeyouhaven’twantedmesincelastnight?Yousaid

it yourself, you can’t stopthinkingaboutme.”

“This is true,” Iago said,allowinghimself tobepulledgentlyoffthestool.“Butitisstillwrong.”

“Perhaps,” Hunter said,bringing his face closer toIago’s, “but sometimes thewrong things are the bestthings.”

Iago was going to reply,

but as soon as his mouthopened Hunter placed histongue inside. For amomentthey remained as they were,their tongues probing eachother, casting about insidetheir mouths, each manenjoying the sensation ofbeing within the other. Aprecursortobiggerandbetterthings.Hunterwasthefirsttopull away, and when he didhe couldn’t help but smile atthe way Iago placed one

finger on his own lips, hisbrowfurrowing.

“Tell me that wasn’tgreat?”

“Itwas…” Iagoshookhishead.

“Different? New?Exciting?” Hunter winked.“Exciting would be the bestanswer.”

“Wrong.”Hunter pulled away, he

didn’t understand. He wassurehewasontosomething,thatIagowasseeingthelight,but still all he could saywaswrong?

“No, love, it’s notwrong.You are what you are, andyouhavetojustacceptthat.”

Iagonoddedslowly.“Yes,you are right. I knowwhat Iwas made to be.” He pulledHunterclose,andranafingeruphisface.“Thismustnever

happen again.” His fingerstopped against Hunter’sforehead. “You must see thetruth,andabaseyourself.”

A sharp pain stabbed hisbrain, and Hunter staggeredback, holding his head. Thepain continued, surgingthrough him, causing him tofall to his knees. Once itfinally subsided he openedhis eyes and looked up atIago. “What the hell did you

just…”What stood there by the

breakfast barwas noman. Itstoodatleasteightfeettall,abeast from hell. Leatherywingssproutedfromitsback,while coarse black haircovereditsbodylikedrippingoil. Its limbs were long andthin, built with sinewymuscle,andhangingbetweenits legs, poking out of thedarkhair,wasthelongestand

most repulsive penis Hunterhadeverseen.

“I have traversed theworld more times than youcanconceiveof,”thecreaturesaid, its voice deep andresonant. Hunter swallowed;his throat dry. The voice,although lacking thewarmth,was unmistakably that ofIago.“Alwaysthemenfearedme;mynamebecamemyth,ataleusedtoscareadolescents.

In Mesopotamia, I wasknown as Lilu, and my sonwas Gilgamesh. A greatwarrior, created for the warabove.Ihaveseensomuchofthis world, but never have Iseenitsochangedasnow.”

Hunter couldn’t speak.This was beyond him. Iago,that most handsome of men,who had seduced him withjusta look,wasthiscreature,this… “What…” Hunter ran

his tongue over his lips.“Whatareyou?”

“I am incubus. I am hethat preys onmortalwomen,he that raises them up to bethe bearer of warriors, thevictors of the war above usall.” The creature, theincubus, moved forward,every muscle in its legsmovingbeneaththeoilyskin.“Thisworldiswrong;mennolonger fear me, instead they

wish to mate with me.”Hunter barely had time toblink before the incubus’claw-like hands surroundedhis throat, lifting him off theflooruntilhisfacewasinchesfrom the demonic visage.“Canyounowbearchildren?Does the seed of man swimwithin you to create newlife?”

Hunter wanted to answer,toexplainwhatitmeanttobe

gay,whyitwasn’twrong,buthe could barely get breathinto his lungs. Only the airsupply through his nose waspreventinghimfromfainting,such was the creature’s griponhis throat.Hewasgettingdelirious,hemusthavebeen,to even think that thiscreature cared what hethought.

A scream echoed fromsomewhere in the house. It

had to be Caitlyn. Thecreatureturneditsgreatblackhead, its yellow eyes castinga lookat theclosedbedroomdoor. “Behold,man, you areabout to witness the truemeaning of creation,” theincubus said, and released itsholdofHunter.

He dropped onto thekitchenfloor,hard.Buthedidnot make any attempt to getup, insteadhegasped forair,

which flooded his lungs likeshards of broken glass. Hisvisionwasbecomingblurred,but he had to focus. To seewhat the incubus was goingto do next. And so hewatched.Therewaslittleelsehecoulddo.

The incubus approachedthe small flight of steps thatled up to the hallway, andwitheachstepittookitsformbegan to change. First the

legs and arms pulled intighter, and the coarse hairseemed to melt into its skin.The wings folded tightagainst its back, sinking intothe tight muscles there.Slowly the black oily skinbecame lighter, until it wasthe bronze it had previouslybeen.Onceagainthecreaturewas Iago, only this time hewas completely naked, andfor a moment Hunter foundhis eye lingering on the

bubble butt as it moved intimewitheachstep.

Huntershookhisheadandlooked away, remindinghimself that Iago and theincubuswere the same thing.That the perfectly formedman, the most stunningexample of hunkdom thatHunterhadever laidhiseyeson, was really that demoniccreature which preyed onwomen.Thatlivedto…

“Ohgod,”Huntersaid,hiswords barely a breath. Heknew why Caitlyn wasscreaming.

*It was impossible. And it

wasunwanted.Twothoughts,intricately linked to the sizeof her belly. Caitlyn couldfeelthem(yes,them!)movinginside her. That’s what hadwoke her up. She had beensleeping, dreaming nice

dreamsofherandIago,ofallthe fabulous things theywould do together, when analarm sounded in her head.As if her bodywas trying tonudge her from her dream.Wake up, it was saying, youhavesimplygottoseethis.

And see she did.As soonas she opened her eyes shenoticed it.Themassive lumpin her belly, her skinstretched out like some

balloon.Shehadneveraskedtobeamother,neverwantedto be a mother. She knewshe’d make a bad one,learnedfartoomanymistakesfrom her own mum. Therewasnothingshecouldteachachildthatwouldbeuseful.

She was careful. Always,no matter how serious arelationship she was in, shewasalwayscareful.Acoupleof years back she even had

the Implanon contraceptiveimplant put into her arm,supplying her body with theprogestin needed to stopovulation. Only one in ahundred women with theimplant got pregnant. Shewassureitwouldnotbeher.

But, wait. The little livesgrowing in her, her bodyundergoing amazing changesso damned quickly.Hormonesoutofwhack!She

wasn’t thinking straight.She’d been pregnant for,what, an hour or two? Howwas she supposed to react?Think things through calmly,orgooffherrocker.

Caitlynscreamedagain.*

The door opened beforeIago reached it, and Caitlynstepped out, looking aroundwildly. She pointed at Iago.

“You!” she yelled, her armsflailing at him. “What haveyoudonetome?”Shepointedatherbelly.“Imean…how?”

“Be calm,” Iago said,reachingout toher.Shetriedto pull away, but in herconditionshecouldnotmovefastenough.Heledherbythearm into the kitchen, andHuntergotafullviewonhernew “condition.” She wasdressedinherusualpinksatin

pajamas, but they were nowincredibly tight around thewaist, while the top was nolonger open, the bottomshaving popped under thesheer pressure of herexpandingbelly.

Caitlynwasverypregnant.And still Hunter just

watched, the air rippingthroughhislungs.

Iago glanced over at him,

ashehelpedCaitlyntositonthebottomstep,andgrinned.Hunter felt a shiver shoot uphis back. He had to dosomething, prevent whateverwas going to happen fromhappening. He attempted torise off the floor, but hisstrengthfailedhim.

Iago had done somethingtohim.

Thefake-mankneltbesideCaitlyn, his naked knees

restingonthecoldlinoofthekitchenfloor.Hunterblinked,unable to miss the lengthymanhood hanging betweenIago’s legs. Before Iago hadrevealed his true form,whenhe had still worn the tightboxersthatnowlayshreddedonthefloor,hedidn’tseemtobepackingsomuch.Ifhehadbeen, Hunter would havenoticed. Clearly, whendisguising himself as Iagoonce more, the incubus had

failed to disguise the thingthat now hung so freely.Accident, orwas it a spitefulact to remindHunterofwhathemighthavehad,hadthingsbeendifferent?Isthatwhyhehad winked? Iago wasplaying with him, sappinghimofhisstrengthsohewasforced to watch whilethis…thing…that had soworked itsway intoHunter’svery soul played out itstwisted act of creation with

Caitlyn.*

“How is this happening?”she asked Iago, now calmedby the gentle administrationsof her gorgeous man. “Weonly slept together lastnight…Andtonightwe…”

“One night was enough,”Iago said. “It always isenough,” he added with hiscalmingsmile,theonehehad

used on her so many times.She touched his face gently;his skinwas sowarm.Warmandsoothing.

“But how? I have thisimplant; it’s supposed to beninety-ninepercent…”

Iago shushed her. “Beproud,mydearkatharos,youwill give birth to my newlegion.Andsoonwewillwinthewar.”

Caitlyn just stared at him.“Whatwar?”

*Hunter looked up at this.

Iago, the incubus, hadmentioned the war before.Thewarabove!

Of course. He had readenough mythology booksover the years; he had heardof the war in heaven. But itwas just a myth, right? Like

theincubuswasamyth…Reality crashed in, and

Hunter’sbrainshutdown.*

Iagonoticed themanpassout, but he did not care.Theworld of man had becomemore complicated, and heneededmoretimetostudyit.But right now he had moreimportant things towhich hehadtoattend.

Caitlynletoutascreamofpain, and Iago turned to her.Beneathherbelly,deepinherwomb, his children weremoving.Alreadytheypressedagainst thebirthsac,wantingtobefree, to jointheirfatherin the war. It was only amatterofmoments.

“Be at peace, katharos,”Iago said. “You cannotpreventthis.”

Shelookedupathim,and

he was struck by the angerand hate. He was notsurprised by it. So manywomenoverthecenturieshadresponded the same way,oncethetruthbecamecleartothem. Iago and Caitlyn werenot destined to be with eachother, she was merely anincubator for his seed tocreatelife.

The truth hurt. “Youbastard!”shescreamed.

Iago smiled. “I am manythings.”

He placed his hand onCaitlyn’s belly and, feelingtheir father’s presence, hischildren broke free, tearingtheir way through thewoman’s internal organs,cracking the rib cage as if itwere a weak prison, andripped through the layer ofskin.

Blood splattered Iago’s

face, and his bright teetherupted through his lips in asmile.

The war could nowcontinue.

Theincubusglanceddownat Caitlyn’s dead eyes as itschildren swarmed up itsblack, oily arm. The womanwould never know the greatservice she had performed,like so many women beforeher.

Still there was anotherwho would know. Theincubus rose to its clawedfeet, and turned to whereHunter lay, still out cold.Deathwouldbe swift for theman, but the incubus did notwish to kill him.Although itknew that it would never beable to impregnate a man,somethingnewstirredwithin,broughtonbyaremembranceofakiss.

“Different? New?Exciting?”

Yes; all these things.Onedaytheincubuswouldreturn,butinanewform,oneHunterdid not know. It wished toexplorefurtherthisnewbreedof man. The war wouldcontinue to wage without itfor a while; its children,spreadingoutoveritsbodyastheywere,would see to that.Yes, it would take a break

from the war, and see whatHunterhadtooffer.

*ThreeMonthsLater…Questions, accusations,

statements, medicalexaminations, evenpsychiatric evaluations. Noonewasquitesurewhattodowith Hunter after the policehad come to investigate thereportsofscreamingfromthe

neighbors. At first it wasassumed that Hunter, whowas huddled in the corner ofthe kitchen, cradlingCaitlyn’s body in his arms,bloodalloverhisclothes,hadkilled her. But medicalexaminations proved thatsomehow something hadrippeditselfoutofher,killingherpainfully.

Hunter wouldn’t talk ofwhat had happened, not at

first, but eventually heopened up. And that’s whenthey placed him in thepsychiatric hospital, just fortests, of course. He’d beenthere for over two monthssince that one-off visit, andthey were happy with him,although his counselor wasworriedforhissafety.

Hunter was worried, too,buthehadkepthisnosecleanand eventually his day-out

wasapproved.Hekneltby thegraveand

placed the flowers gently ontheground.Hethoughtitwasgoing to be hard coming tosee Caitlyn, but it wasproving surprisingly easy. Inhis own mind he was stilltrying to sort out what hadhappened while he’d passedout,butitwasasiftherewassome block preventing himfrom thinking too hard about

it.Hunter knew it would

remainamystery.Andofthathewasglad.

Hesmiledthinly.“Seeyousoon, Cait, love,” hewhispered, making sure hiscompanioncouldn’thearhim.He was pretty sure theorderlies at the hospitals hadno idea what he wasplanning. It didn’t matter;soon he wouldn’t be a

problemforthem.He stood up and walked

overtohiscompanion.Anewmember of staff at thehospital. A stunning youngman from Scotland, withbright blue eyes, light brownhair and a smile that hadbedazzled Hunter the secondthey’dbeenintroduced.

“Yereadytogobacknow,then,Hunter?”heasked.

Hunter nodded. “Yeah,love.Thanksforcomingwithme.”

The younger man heldHunter’s hand and togetherthey walked off. “Ach, man,forye, anything,” Iagan said,grinning.

OffFleshTravel,theysay,broadensthemind. It’s a truism if evertherewasone.Whattheyfailtotellyouisthatitcanscarethe living crap out of you,too.Itravelalot,visitalotofplaces,stayata lotofhotels.I’ve been to some crappyhotels, some really luxuriousones, too. But never been toone like The Cliff’s Edge inTorquay. It was a business

meeting about sellingoutboard motors, prettytediousstuff,really.

ThingsstartedgoingweirdontheSaturdayafterwe’dallarrived. The actual meetingsweren’t to begin untilMonday, which left us thewholeweekendtopalaroundand get to know each other.Youknow, chill in the saunathewayhalf-nakedmenseemto like to do, play tennis in

the convenient courts locatedbesidethehotel,orjustgofora stroll into the nearest littletown.

After finishing breakfast,scrambled eggs on lightlybutteredtoastandacoupleofglassesofmilk,Icameoutofthe dining room just in timeto catch Mr. Wyndhamentering the lobby. He wasdressed in his tennis whites,so no prize for guessing

where he’d been. Somethingof a fitness fanatic, really,which came as a bit ofmystery to me seeing as hedidn’t eat breakfast.Something told me that Mr.Wyndham, who had a fewyears on me, would not bearoundon this littleworldofours for longer than I. Still,he seemed a nice enoughchap.Likemehehadarriveda few days early, so we hadthe chance to get to know

each other a little bit morethantheothers.Istillthinkofhim as Mr. Wyndham, eventhough by Saturday morningwewerealreadyonfirstnameterms. Mark of respect, Isuppose.It’s“athing,”asmyniecewouldhavesaid.

“Heythere,Sam,”Isaidtohim.

“Alright…”hesaidtome,withawidesmile,andafterafailed attempt to juggle his

tennisracketandbaggaveupon the offering to shake myhand. I laughed and askedhim if he fancied a meanderinto town later. We bothsharedaninterestinantiques,and I’d noticed a little shopon the drive here. Mr.Wyndham said he’d bemorethanhappytoaccompanymeonce he’d had a shower. Noproblem, I could findsomething to occupy mewhilehewasgettingridofall

thatmanlysweat.Iwatchedhimwalkaway,

myeyeslingeringonhispertass beneath the white shorts,and only turned away whenhe entered the lift. I glancedaround the lobby, hoping noone had noticed where myeyeshadlooked.NotthatI’min the closet or anything, it’sjust there was somethingabout him that I couldn’tresist.Andyes, it’s true; I’m

amarriedman.Sosueme.So, there Iwas, notmuch

ofanythingtodoexceptwait.Once I was certain no onewas payingme any attentionmy eyes returned to the lift.Going up, of course. Mr.Wyndham was on the firstfloor, so I guessed hewouldn’tbetoolong.Iturnedaway, intending to findsomething to occupyme, butbefore I could come upwith

anything even remotelyinterestingtherewasthedingofabellandtheslidingnoiseof metal on metal as the liftdoors reopened. I turnedaround. Maybe Mr.Wyndhamhadleftsomethinginthecourts.

It wasn’t him. A coupleemerged from the lift, socaughtup in theirownworldthey were totally unaware ofthis casually dressed thirty-

something man watchingthem. I suspect they werehavinganaffair…onlypeoplein the midst of a clandestineaffair would be so wrappedupineachother.

For a moment I waspuzzled.Surely therehadnotbeen enough time for the liftto reach the first floor? Idismissed this. Not like Iwasn’t inaworldofmyownfor a while there.More time

could certainly have passedthanIrealised.

Once again I turned awayfromthelift.

*Timepassed,as it iswant

to do. At first I wasn’t surehowmuch,sinceIgotcaughtup in conversation withanother hotel guest. It was abizarre conversation, one inwhich I spent most of the

timenoddingandmakingtheoccasional agreeable sound,sinceIbarelyhadachancetoget a word in. This guest, ayoung lady called Elisa,rambledonaboutthepatternsinlife.TobehonestIhadnoideawhat shewasgetting at,since all these patterns shesaw were way beyond me. Isometimes think it takes aspecialpersontodiscoverthesecret patterns of life, othertimesIjustthinkthesepeople

are barking. Elisa was, Iwouldsaypolitely,totallyoutthere.

Still, if nothing else, ithelpedmepassthetimewhileI waited for Mr. Wyndham.Eventually, I managed toexcusemyself,whichIdidbycunningly introducing her tothe wonders of outboardmotors.Atopicguaranteedtobore the living crap out ofanyone, except yours truly.

There is only so much deepand meaningful conversationthe mind can take beforemidday, andmine had a fullquotaalready.

So, off she trotted and Ireturned to the lobby and tothe total lack of Mr.Wyndham. I checked mywatch. A whole hour hadpassedwith change. I lookedaround, hoping that Mr.Wyndham was elsewhere in

the lobby, perhaps inconversationwith someone alittle more interesting thanElisa. He wasn’t, whichpuzzledme,’causeIhonestlycouldn’t believe he’d havepassed me outside withoutsayingaword.Wehad,afterall, spent several hourstalking the night before andseemed to be kindred spirits.WhatwasItodo?Firstthingthatcametomindwastoseeif he’d fallen asleep in his

room.Itmadeacertainsense;hecouldhavebeenmoretiredfrom his tennis than helooked.

Iwalkeduptotheliftandpressed the call button. Andwaited. Chewing my lips,trying not to appear anxiousor impatient, I watched theindicatorabovetheliftas thelight told me it had movedfromfloorfourtofloorthree.Should be with me in a

minute. Or not. Up to fifth,and top, floor. I raised aneyebrow. It stayedat five fora fairwhile. Finally the lightwentoutagain,signallingthelift’sdescent.

I glanced around thelobby,hopingnoonenoticedthatIwaspracticallyhoppingfrom foot to foot like someschoolboy about to visit afriendhe’dnotseeninalongtime. Or, perhaps, even

visitingSanta.Lookingback, IsupposeI

didkindoffeellikethat,too.Ithadbeena long timesinceI’d foundmyself attracted tosomeonenew;itwasafeelingI’d not had in a long, longtime.Andneversince.

The light on the indicatornever did come back on. Iassumed the lighthadsimplybroken; either that or the lifthadgotstuckbetweenfloors.

Either way, I couldn’t waitany more. The stairs werenowmyonlyoption.

Narrow corridors. Hatethem,don’tyou?Hotelshavethis thing about them. Neverquite understood why. Afterall, looking at The Cliff’sEdge from outside it looksflipping huge, and yet insidethereseemstobenospaceatall.Makesmewonderwhereit all goes, ’cause neither the

rooms nor the corridors takeupmuchspace.

Room173wasbeforeme.Iraisedahandtoknock,andfor a fewworryingmomentsit remained inmidair, barelyan inch from the door. Alarge part of me wanted toknock, like some previouslyunknown desire was drivingme to see Mr. Wyndham inthe privacy of his roomregardless of what he was

doing. But there was amorecautious part of my brainattemptingtoholdmeback.Itwas telling me to leave himalone, that this guy wasgrabbing a fewwinks after atiring workout on the tenniscourts. And then there wasthat tiny part of mescreaming, telling me, backoff, to leave the man alone!JustwhatthehelldidIthinkIwas doing anyway? I had ahusbandathome!

Thecautiouspartlost,andsodidthattiniestscream.Myfistrappedonthedoor.Once,twice.Pause.

There was no answer. IassumedMr.Wyndhamwasadeep sleeper, so I knockedagain,thistimealittleharder.Stillnothing.Athirdattempt,I decided, then I would goand…well, I didn’t knowwhat I would do, but a thirdattemptwas going to be last.

ThistimeIaddedmyvoicetomyefforts.

“Hello, Sam, you okay inthere?”

My heart skipped a beat,certainIhadheardsomethingmove inside the room.“Hello?” I called again. Thistimetherewasnothing.

Head lowered, I turnedandbeganthelongwalkbacktothelift.Itwasonlytwenty

feet away, but those twentyfeet felt like the farthestdistance I had ever walked.By the time I was three feetfromtheliftIheardthecreakof metal on metal, and sawthe doors slide open. Istopped, hoping to God thatMr. Wyndham was going towalkoutofthere.

Nothing. No Mr.Wyndham, no no-one. Itenderly approached the lift

and looked inside. Therewasn’t anybody waiting inthere. I stepped to enter,deciding I couldn’t be arsedtowalkbackdownthestairs,ormaybeIcouldretiretomyownroom,waitawhile,thentry Mr. Wyndham’s roomagain.Butasmyshoelandedon the minute gap betweencorridorandliftIstopped.

My breath caught. For astartlingly long second I

couldn’tbreatheatall.Itwasas if the lift had started toclose in aroundme, about togobble me up like a Sundayroast.Myhandsrushedtomythroatinamaddesiretoopenan emergency hole to let theair through, but as soon myfingers brushed the skin ofmy throat the air returned. Istaggered back, and fellagainstthewall.

The lift doors closed.My

eyes climbed to the indicatorabove.No light, no sign thatit had been on the first flooratall.

Peoplewere lined up in aqueue at the reception desk.Judging by the look of themthey were all here for theforthcoming conference.Youcouldalways tellpeoplewhosold outboard motors. Greypeople in grey suits. Muchlike me, really. As I stood

there my life flashed beforemyeyes.Itdidn’tlastlongatall.Amediocrelifeasachild,with my father drumminginto me the need to be astablehusband,myextremelyexciting college businessstudies course, my marriageto Jake, and our subsequentstable but very dull lifetogether. We never didanything interesting; when Iwasn’t at work we’d sit athome, watch TV, eat, sleep,

andthengobacktoworkthenext day.When was the lasttimewehad a holiday?Fouryears ago, and that was ourhoneymoon.

Agreyman inagreysuitlivingagreylife.

Mr. Wyndham wasdifferent.Hehadn’tarrivedatthehotel inagreysuit.He’darrivedinbaggyjeans,anicetight t-shirt and sunglasses.He didn’t carry a suitcase,

either.His conference paperswere in a trendy off theshoulder“manbag.”Itwasn’tuntil I’d got talking to himthe previous night that Irealisedhewasoneofus,andthat he was actually olderthanme.Hecouldeasilyhavebeen mistaken for twenty-five.

My eyes skittered to thelift, andmymind returned tothe worrying absence ofMr.

Wyndham. Ineeded to speaktothemanager.Sinceleavingthe first floor my mind hadbeen over things severaltimes, and I was nowabsolutely certain that I hadheard a sound in Mr.Wyndham’sroom.Thesoundoffalling.

I didn’t want to drawattention to myself, though.Thus I waited, watching asonebyonemyfellowssigned

in and picked up their roomkeys. An interesting insightinto the tedium of being areceptionistatahotel.Icouldsee that the young womanbehind the desk was forcingthesmilemoreeachtimesheturned to the next guest. Itwasgood, inaway, toknowthatitwasn’tonlymyjobthatwas tedious. I felt an affinitywith the woman, and wassure we’d meet on commonground over the

disappearance of Mr.Wyndham. Hopefully itwould amount to nothing, asimplecaseofMr.Wyndhamfallingasleepandthenfallingoff his bed in surprise at theloudness of my knock. Oneway or another, for thewoman itwouldbe a changefrom the humdrum ofmanningthereceptiondesk.

Hang the manager. Heprobably had a hundred and

onethingstodoanyway.Thereceptionist needed somespark.

I approached the desk,barely registering the liftdoorsslidingopenasImovedwithinfourfeetofthem.HadIpaidmoreattention Imighthave realised that there wasno way they should haveopened, since only secondsago the last of the grey suitshad entered the lift for his

ownfloor.I smiled at the

receptionist,whosenamewasMeg according to her badge,and asked, “Could you tellmeifMr.Wyndhamhasgoneout? We were supposed tomeetinthelobbybutIthinkImighthavemissedhim.”

She askedme towait onemoment while she checkedthe keys hanging behind her.Hotel rules didn’t permit the

taking of keys off thepremises. As long as youremained on the grounds itwas fine, but if you weregoing beyond you had toreturnthekeytoreception.Asecurity measure, probablysomething to do with fireregulations.

“Hiskeyisn’there,whichmeanshe’seitherinhisroomor on the groundssomewhere.” Meg smiled at

me.Herpracticedsmile.“Ah.” Ipausedamoment,

wondering if what I had tosay next would come outright. “Well the thing is, Ichecked on his room a shortwhile ago. You see, when Ilast saw him he had justreturned from playingtennis.”

The sign of recognitioncome to her face. “Oh yes, Iremember. I saw the two of

you talking. You watchedhim enter the lift, didn’tyou?”Sheaskedthequestionwith a very innocent voice,butIcouldtellbytheglintinher eyes that she was tryingtoimplysomething.

I chose to ignore that.“Anyway,Icheckedhisroomandtherewasnoanswer.”

“Didyoutakethelift?”“Pardonme?”

“Thelift.Didyoutakethelifttofirstfloor?”

Againhervoicewasquiteinnocent, but her eyesnarrowed. Somewhere in thebackofmymindasmallbellof alarm rang. Foolishly Iignored it. I needed thiswoman’s help to find outwhat had happened to Mr.Wyndham. “No, I took thestairs. The lift was…erm,busy.”

Meg smiled knowingly.“Then maybe you missedhim?Hemighthavetakentheliftdownherewhileyoutookthestairs.”

“He might have, yes. Buttwo things make me thinkotherwise.”

“Ohyes?”“Yes. One, if he had

returned to the lobby at anytimeyouwouldhavenoticed,

since you clearly pay closeattention to your guests’movements when they’redownhere.And two, I hearda sound when I knocked onhisdoor.”

“Oh.”This little revelation

seemed to shut her up for amoment. I watched herreaction, and it occurred tome that Iwasnevergoing toconnect with Meg. Despite

the equal tedium of our jobswe had nothing in common.She looked at me as thoughshe was the keeper of aparticularsecretthatIhadnorighttowhatsoever.

“Maybe we should checktogether?”Megsuggested.

Thistimeitwasmyturntonarrowtheeyes.Theofferofhelpcamealittle tooquicklyformyliking.ButhowcouldI turn down such help? I

needed to know what hadhappenedtoMr.Wyndham.

“Thatwould be…ideal,” Isaid, once I had decided onthe most innocuous word Icouldthinkof.

She reached under thedesk to retrieve something. Icouldn’t see what it was,sincebythetimeshereturnedtoanuprightpositionshehaddeposited it into the backpocketofherskirt.Shejoined

me on the other side of thedesk and I motioned her tolead the way. Although shewas a good foot shorter thanme,andamuchsmallerbuild,I still didn’t like the idea ofher walking behind me. Letalone beside me. I followedhertowardsthelift.

“I’d rather we took thestairs,actually,”Isaidjustasshe pressed a thumb againstthecallbutton.

“It’sonlyalift,”Megsaidwith a small laugh. “Do youhaveclaustrophobia?”

Ishookmyhead.“No,it’snotthat.”

“Whatisit,then?”How could I explain to

her? There was somethingvery wrong about this lift. Ihad no idea what, but Iinstinctively knew somethingwas up. Another of the

conclusions I had drawnbetween the time I left thefirst floorandreturned to thelobby. As I looked at Megmore closely I came to therealisation that she probablyhadagoodideaanyway.

The lift doors opened.Megwavedmein.Ieyedher,wondering if I should let herknow that I knew somethingwas wrong with this picture.No, not yet. No need to play

my hand. Once I saw insideMr. Wyndham’s room, sure,butnotbeforethen.

“Very well,” I concededand walked over to the lift.Westeppedinsideatthesametime. I lookedaround. Itwasa normal lift, nothing specialabout it. Just a typical metalbox lit from above, with thefloor and emergency buttonsto the left of the doors. Ismiled.PerhapsIwasbeinga

little paranoid after all.Someone probably justpressed the buttons beforeleaving the lift, hencewhy itopenedwhennoonecalledit.

The door began to closeandIstartedtosettleintothatcomfortable reasoning. Justthen, at the worst possiblemoment,Megdecided toslipout of the lift. I dashedforward, but wasn’t quickenough to prevent the doors

frommeetinginthemiddle.Istabbed at the door-openbutton but there was noresponse.

Ispunaround,shockedbythe abrupt movement of thelift. It was going down. Iswallowed hard, doing mybest to controlmy breathing.There was no lower groundfloororbasementbutton,andyetIwasmostcertainlygoingdown.

Iclosedmyeyes.Mygyminstructor had shown mesome meditation techniques,and I just prayed theywouldbeenough to calmmeas themetalboxandIdescendedtoGod-knows-where.

*Eventuallytheliftcameto

rest. As I neared myunwanted destination I couldhave sworn I could smellburning. Not the fumes of a

simple fire, rather the samesmell you got when youaccidentally burned the haironyourfingerswhenlightingastovewithmatches.

With my nostrils full ofthat smell, my heart startedthumpingharderas thedoorsslid open. Whatever wascoming next was somethingto be dreaded, and I surelydid. I pulled back, pressingmyselfagainstthefarwallof

the lift as much as waspossible. I wanted to get agood look at what wasbeyond the doors before Icommittedmyselftosteppingoutside. I had alreadyconvinced myself thatwhether Ipressed thegroundfloor button or not, the liftwouldnotbereturningmetoterrafirma.

What I saw was, Isuppose, a cave. Maybe my

senseshadnotbeendeceivingme after all, since it nowseemed that the lift haddescended all the way downthrough the cliff. I sniffed.Mixed in with the smell ofburning was a hint of salt. Imusthavebeenatthebottom,inacavenearthesea.

I crossed the lift andpressedabutton.Justincase.Asexpectedthedoorsdidnotclose, instead they remained

resolutelyopen.Itookadeepbreath, and almost gaggedwith the tasteof theburning.The longer I was exposed tothe air of the cave, themoreintense the burning became.Thecavewassaturatedinit.

Having no other realchoice I stepped out of thelift. Itwasacavealright,butwhether it was natural orfashioned by human hands Icould not tell. Not reallymy

field of expertise. I soldoutboard motors, for God’ssake, and Iwas seriouslyoutofmydepth.

Nonetheless I continuedon.Ihadtofindoutwhathadhappened to Mr. Wyndham,and I just knew the answerlay further into this cave. Ihad taken several stepswhenI heard the unmistakeablesound of the lift doorsclosing, amplified by the

echoingvoidof thecave thatsurroundedme.Ispunonmyheel, intending to dive intotheliftbeforethedoorscouldmeet,butIwastoofaraway.I hadn’t realised I’d walkedsofar,butIhad,andI’dneedto be Superman to cross thedistance betweenme and theliftintime.Feelingasuselessas a screen door on a sub, Iwatched as the doors sealedmyfate.

Itwasjustmeandthecavenow.Andtheburning.

*It didn’t takeme too long

tofindthesourceoftheacridsmell. Whoever was behindall this (and I had mysuspicions thanks to Meg’smanoeuvringmeintothelift)clearly didn’t want their…what? Trophies? I wasn’tsure. Whatever they liked tocall the poor people in the

cave, the perpetrators didn’tliketowalktoofar.

Several people werechained to the walls, theirarms and legs spread eagle,headsslumped.Itwashardtotelliftheywerealiveordeadfrom my position at themouth of this little cavern;hard enough to keep lookingat them, what with the waythey had been skinned. Oneofthemhadnoskinatall;all

that could be seen was themuscles that usually layundisturbed and protected bythe outer layer. There wassomething incredibly grossand wrong about seeing abodyofpuremusclelikethis.Seeing someone in a nakedand vulnerable statewas onething, as the other bodieswere, but to see someonestripped to the muscle… Ifoughttheurgetovomit.

The other people hung tothe walls were in variousstates of being skinned.Whole strips of skin weremissing, some across thechest, others along the arms,legs and torso. Oneunfortunate man had beencastrated, too. I winced, myhand gripping my ownprivates involuntarily.Although I’d never hadanything done to my ownpersonals other than

circumcision when I was akid,Icouldwellimaginehowitmusthavefelttohaveitcutoff. I suppose any manwould,wouldn’tthey?

Nearby, on a large metaltable, lay several cuttingimplements.Knivesandsawsof varying shape and size. Iwas surprised to see howcleantheywere,andthenmyeyesalightedonthesanitisinganddisinfectingsolutionsthat

also stood on the table. Atleast the people responsibleshowedsomegoodsense.

Whatwas I saying?Goodsense? How could theypossibly justify what hadbeen done to themen on thewalls.Andyes,itoccurredtome then that therewere onlymen in this cavern. Nowomenatall.ForamomentIpondered on the idea thatperhaps the women were in

another cavern. But I soondismissed that idea. DeepdownIknewitwasonlymenwhowerethevictimshere.

I approached the table togetabetter lookatwhatwason there. I treaded carefully,andquietly.Notsureifanyofthe men were still alive, Ididn’t want to cause themfurtherpainbyshockingtheminto movement with anysuddennoise.

My heart sank furtherwhen I noticed the lack ofany anaesthetic on the table.Clean these bastards mayhave been, but they clearlyhadnoqualmsaboutcausingthemenpain.

“Who…” Cough. “Whoareyou?”

Asimplebutveryobviousquestion. I turned from thetable, and my mouth fellopen. Seeing the men hang

there,skintorntoshreds,wasone thing, but to have oneactually speaking to me wasanother. My eyes drifted totheshudderingriseandfallofhis tattered chest. I liftedmygazeontotheman’sface,andwas hit by the sheer painetched there. Totallyunderstandable,ofcourse,butIneverknewyoucouldreallyfeel someone else’s pain thewayIcouldthen.

I told him my name, notthat it was of much use tohim.IwonderedwhatIcoulddoforhim.

“Areyouwiththem?”“No,” I replied in a

whisper, the anger anddisgust bubbling inmy tone.“They trapped me downhere.” I looked around.“Although I have no ideawhy,” I added, not botheringto hide the fear that had

riddenupinme.Themancoughed.“Divine

retribution… That’s whatthey’llcallit.”

“They?” I asked, althoughdeepdownIknewtheanswertothat.

He nodded upwardspainfully.“Upthere,inthe…hotel.”

I approached him, andreached up for the manacles

aroundhiswrists.“Letmegetyououtofthis.”

“No.” He coughed again;this time it came out allragged, andwas followed bya dribble of blood. I reachedinto my trousers pocket andretrievedmyhankie.Idabbedthebloodfromthesideofhismouth, and he smiled atme.It hit me that this wasprobably the first sign ofhuman compassion he had

felt ina longwhile.Myeyeswatered at the overbearingsadnessofitall.

“Please…killme.”I pulled back, a spasm of

shock shaking me. I shookmy head. I couldn’t kill aperson.Nomatterwhat.Ijustdidn’thaveitinme.

“Please.Beforetheycomebackandfinish…this.”

“Look,” I said, a sudden

urgencygrippingme,“Icameheretofindafriend.I’msurethey’ve brought him here. Isthere another cavern likethis?”

“Killme.”Ilookedbackatthemouth

of the cavern. He was suretheyweregoingtoreturn,andthat only made me certain,too. I had to find Mr.Wyndham before theyreturned. Isniffed.Thesmell

ofsaltwasstrongernow,soIcouldn’t have been too farfrom the sea. This meantthere had to be another exitfrom these caves. If I couldfindMr.Wyndham, then wecould…

“It’stoolate.”Myattentionsnappedback

totheman,andmyheartwasstopped by the look of purehorror on his face. “What doyou…?”

I didn’t need to finishmyquestion.Iheardtheliftdoorsopenashortdistanceaway.

“I have to go.” I reachedupahandandwipedafurtherdribbleofbloodofftheman’schin.“I’msorry.”

With one final look ofapologyIturnedtoleavehimtohiscertaindeath.Thatbriefmoment of humanity wasgoingtocostme,sinceithadgiven them enough time to

reach the mouth of thecavern. A small group ofthem stood there, completelyblockingtheonlywaydeeperinto the caves. My onlyescaperoute.

Irecognisedthemall.Megthereceptionist,themanwhokept the tennis courts inorder, the waiting staff fromthediningroom,thechef,andattheheadofthesmallgroupthemanagerhimself.Eachof

them was smiling, and thesheer delight in those smilesmademyskinsquirm.

“Hello, Mr. Jensen,” themanagersaid.“Soniceofyoutojoinus.”

*I’ll admit I screamed.Not

because of what I saw, somuchasbecauseIknewwhatwas coming my way next.They manacled me to the

wall, right next to theman Ihad spoken to.He’d not saida singleword since they hadentered; he didn’t even lookmy way once during thewhole time that they forcedme against the wall andferociously stripped menaked.ButIwatchedhim,asMeg carefully sliced a longstripofskinoffhim,fromtheleftshoulderrightdowntohiswaist. He didn’t scream, Ithinkhehadgotsousedtoit

now that he couldn’t screamanymore.Although the painhefeltwasclearlywrittenallover his face. I did scream,however.

Once Meg had finishedshe held the skin aloft like atrophy. Then, and I have toconfess I could not removemy eyes from the spectacle;sheputoneendinhermouthand started chewing.Theoldkeeper of the courts came

overtoher laughing,andshenodded at him. My stomachturned as he took the otherend of the strip of skin intohis ownmouth, and togetherthey continued chewing as ifthe skinwas a long piece ofspaghetti being eaten by twolovers.

“Why?”Iasked.“Infidelity,Mr.Jensen.”“What? I’ve never…” A

flash of memory; watchingthetightassofMr.Wyndhaminhis tennis shorts, Jake,myhusband,athomeoblivious.Iswallowed, and the managernodded. “But…I didn’t doanything.”

“No, but youwouldhave.AndnowMr.Wyndhamwillbe saved the displeasure oftakingpartinyourinfidelity.”

I lookedaround; checkingone last time to make sure

Mr. Wyndham was nothanging on thewall. “Whereishe?”

“Safe in his room. Megtells me it was you whoalmostdisturbedmereturninghimthere.”

I was too stupefied torespond to that. So themanagercarriedon.

“He shall awake in hisroom,believinghefellasleep

after a tiring bout of tennis.He’llhavenomemoryofhisbrief trip down here.” Themanager nodded at the chef.“Gene here makes the mostamazing and potent amnesiapills.Mr.Wyndhamhadtobebrought down here to arouseyour curiosity. We knewyou’d want to know how hecouldgetinaliftonesecond,andthennotbeinitthenext.But,he issafenow.The lureworked.”

“Congratulations,” I said,trying to soundbraver than Ifelt. “But he’ll be expectingmetomeethim.”

“Yes, until Meg explainsthat you left earlier withoutanywordastowhy.”

“Otherswillmissme.Myhusband…”

“Willreceivealetterfromyou explaining that you hadan affair with another man,

andhowyoucouldnothandletheguiltandsoheshallneverhearfromyouagain.”

My mouth worked tospeak,butIcouldnotfindthewords. In my mind I couldseeJakeathomethinkingthatI had been capable of… Ilowered my head. I wouldhave, given the chance.MaybeIdid deserve this. Totreat my marriage in such acasualmanner…

“Youwillbemissed forawhile, but youwill soon justbecomeanotherstatistic.Oneofmillionswho can’t handletheirlivesandsosinkintotheunderbelly of this wonderfulnation of ours. Sometimessomeonewillpassatramponthe street and think theyrecognise him as you, butthey’ll ignore that as stupid.You’llsoonbeforgotten.”

Ilookedatthemanbeside

me, who now seemed to beunconscious.Knockedoutbythepain,nodoubt.

“Yes, you will be likethese.” The managerindicated his staff. “We arethe avenging angels, seekingdivine retribution for theinfidelity of man. We havetheseconferences toseekoutthosewhowishtopervertthesanctity of life. Those whowouldsleepwithotherswhen

boundbywedlock;thosewhoclimb to their presentpositions in life by nefariousmeans. We gather them in,andconsumethesinoff theirflesh.”

Meg and the oldmanhadfinished their bizarre meal.Themanager walked over toMegandlickedtheremainingbloodoffher lips.He lookedbackatmeandwinked.“Youshallmake an excellent feast

indeed. Your sin is one ofdesire, and that reeksthroughout your body.” Heplaced an arm around Megand guided her out of thesmall cavern. “We shallreturnforyou.”

And they shall. Of that Ihave no doubt. Maybe Ideserveit.

ReflectionIthadbeenashitterofaday,butCoreyJordanwasgladtobehome.Therewasnoway,in his considered opinion, inwhichthedaycouldgetmuchworse. Fuck Duncan Lemananyway—ifhedidn’twanttoget a smack in the mouth aweek before Christmas, thenitwashisownstupidfaultforconstantly picking on thenon-Brits at work. Racist

bastard!About timesomeonetore a piece off the old fool.And Corey was more thanhappytobethatperson.

Ofcourse,asitturnedout,the boss didn’t agree. And,for reasons Corey couldn’tquiteworkout,itwashewhoendedupwiththefirstwrittenwarning.Wasithisfault thatracismpissedhimoffso?No.Was it his fault then, whenthatpissedoff,hismouthran

awaywithitselfandproducedmore profanities than Coreyevenrealisedheknew?No,itwasnot.Apparentlyaccusingsomeone of being racist wasas bad as being racistnowadays.And itwasn’t likeDuncan didn’t deserve thesmack. What a fucked upworldtheylivedin!

And so, leaving workearly(andnotoutofchoice!),he decided to pop into the

pub. Six bottles of Bud, twoJägerbombs, and four hourslaterhefinallyrealiseditwastime to head home. So, herehewas,stumblingthroughhisdoor at seven-thirty on aMonday night, completelystonesober.Whoeversaidhecouldn’thandlehisdrinkwasclearlytalkingcrap.

“Shhh!” he hissed at thetable as it wobbled next tohim.“Stupidtable!Whatyou

doing in theway?”heasked,inastagewhisper.

He looked up at the darkhallway. Why he waswhispering he had no idea.Not like anyoneelse lived inhis house, was it? Helaughed, bitterly. One dayhe’d get Iracema living withhim,hejustknewit,ain’tthatright,boy?Hereallydidneedto stop thinking to himselflikehewastwopeople.Ashe

opened thedoor to the livingroomhewonderedifthinkingto yourselfwas the first signof madness. It’s what theysaid….

He shook his head.Nope,talking to yourself was, hebelatedly remembered. “Sowheredoes that leave talkingtotables?”heaskedthedoor,andenteredtheroom.

He stopped. There wassomeone standing in the

middle of the room,silhouetted against the lightscoming from the streetoutside. Corey took a deepbreath, hismind clouded andconfused. He knew he oughtto do something, saysomething, but all he coulddo was watch as the personslowly turned their head. Alight swept past the largewindowslookingoutontothestreet, and for a split secondCorey got a glimpse of the

person’seyes.White! Pure white. No

pupil,no iris, justpurewhiteeyes!

Without even realising hewas doing it, Corey’s handreached for the light switchand flicked it. The lightflooded the room, and for asecond Corey was blinded.He blinked, forcing his eyestoadjusttotheillumination.

“What the fuck?” he said,

breathingheavily.Other than himself there

was no one in the room. Helooked around, wondering ifthe person had dashed intothekitchenviathesmallarchwhilehewasblinking,butno.The kitchen was empty, too.Coreyshookhishead.

Okay, somaybe hewas alittlebitdrunkafterall.

*

Corey pushed himselfback from the monitor, andrubbed his temples. Damnhangover. He looked aroundquickly, making sure no onenoticedhisrubbing.Hedidn’tgetdrunk;atleastthat’swhathelikedtotellhiscolleagues,sotheideaofappearingtobehung over was not exactlyconducive to hismanufacturedimage.

Hereachedintothedrawer

of his desk, andsurreptitiously removed thesmall silver box. Wrappinghis hand around it, ensuringthat no one else could seewhat he was holding, Coreygot to his feet and made hisway across the open-planoffice.

Openplan.Thescourgeofprivacy atwork.He hated it.Hell, he hated working in acallcentreperiod,buthewas

kind of stuck with it. Theunwanted image of thewritten warning came to hismind, and he smiled slyly tohimself. Well, he was justabout stuck with it. Maybeafter theNewYearhe’dstartlooking for something else,but right nowhehad to holdon to his job. Which meanttrying to steer clear ofDuncanLeman.

Thebastard!

Once he was in the stafftoilets, Corey checked tomakesurehewasalone,thenturned to the sink.He turnedon the tap and opened hishand, revealing thepacket ofparacetamol. He popped acouple out of their foil, andplaced them on his tongue,bendingoverthesinktodrinkdirectly from the tap. Not aselegantasacup,butthenthewater in the bathroom wasnot normally used for

washingdownhangoverpills.Standingupstraightagain,hetiltedhisback.Heswallowed,andletoutabreathofair.

It’dtakealittlewhile,buthis headache would soonsubside to a manageablelevel.Inthemeantimehejusthad to make sure he didn’tleanintooclosetothe…

“Drowning your sorrowslastnight,then,eh,Cor?”

He closed his eyes. Hebloody hated it when that titused the diminutive; itimplied a familiarity thatwasn’t warranted. Slowly,Corey opened his eyes againand turned to face theintruder.“Whatdoyouwant,Dunc?” he asked, placingparticular emphasis on thelast word. He knew Duncanwas no fan of being calledthat—besides, it made theowner of the name sound

incredibly thick. And Coreylikedthat.

Duncan Leman was ashort man, somewhatoverweightandnotverytidy.One of the sort who figuredthat since they spent theirworkinghourshiddenbehindaPCandphonetherewasnoneed to worry about theirappearance.Itwasthemiddleof winter and the fool wasdressed inkhaki shortsanda

sickeningly bright t-shirt.Coreywanted to hit him justfordressinglikethat.

Duncan shrugged. “Don’twant anything, mate. Justmakinganobservationisall.”

“Yeah,welldon’t.Ididn’taskforyouropinion.”

Again Duncan shrugged.“Mate, we’re all entitled toouropinions.”

Corey chewed his bottom

lip and shook his head. “No,really. It’s just the fact thatyouthinkI’mentitledtoyouropinion that grates on me.”HenoddedatthedoorbehindDuncan.“Sodoff.”

As expected, Duncandidn’t take the advice,whichsuited Corey well. Theheadache had yet to leave,and Duncan’s continuedpresencewas only serving toirritate it. He turned away

from Duncan and looked athis reflection in the mirror.Corey pocketed the tabletsandturnedthetapbackon.

“Why are you always soaggressive,Cor?”

Coreycouldn’tbelievethestupidity of the man. “Shit,dude!Doyouactuallyhaveabrain in that head of yours?”he asked, as he splashedwater over his face. “I’mprettysure Ispelled itallout

yesterday. I don’t like you,Duncan.”Hepulled a coupleof paper towels out of thedispenser and proceeded todry his face. “You’re pondscum.Now,fuckoff,beforeIasklesspolitely.”

Duncan smiled andnarrowed the gap betweenthem.“Onestepcloser to theedge,Cor.”

Corey raised an eyebrow,continuing to watch Duncan

in themirror.Hewas clearlyprovoking Corey;intentionally, too. DuncanwantedCorey out of the job.Corey wondered why. Healsodecidednottorisetothebait.

“Yeah, whatever, dude.I’vegotworktodo.”Hewenttomove aroundDuncan, butthe shorter man merelystepped in the way. Coreysighed. “Mate, sorry, but I

ain’t getting no secondwarningforyou.”

Duncan, at least, had thegood sense to lookdisappointed. “Now that is ashame, ’cause I know thatunc…MrRobertswants yourass.”

Corey stepped back, andregarded Duncan in a newlight.Theslipwasclear, andDuncan hadn’t been quickenough in covering it. The

bosswashisuncle,eh?So,itwas a tag-team event. Hedecided to laugh it off. Fornow.“Yeah,well,ifhewantsa piece of ass he should tryHeaven. I’m spoken for!”With that he barged his wayoutpastDuncan.

*Corey flicked the lamp

off, and for a few momentsstood by the archway thatconnected the living room to

the kitchen. The soft orangeglow of the fire created acalming atmosphere in theroom,makingCoreynotwanttomove.Heknewhehad to,of course, since it was theearly hours of the morningand he needed some sleepbefore work. But he feltchilled, and not the least bittired. Iracema was good atmakinghimfeelrelaxed.Thesoftflickeringshadowsonthewalls,coupledwiththeslight

inebriation, made him morerelaxedthansleepy.

He walked across theroom,andstoppedbefore themirror hanging above themantle. He stepped closer,andremainedthere,watchinghisreflectionandthewaythefire below cast shadowsacross his face, giving him amuch more definite bonestructurethanheusuallyhad.He rubbed a hand across his

jaw line, ending on his chin.Onceagainhewonderedifheoughttogoforabeard.Notagoatee;thatwastooexpectedthese days. No, he wanted afull beard, but nicelytrimmed…Frakesstyle.

Heturnedhisheadslightlyto the left, to check theshadow line across his jaw.He stopped, his eyes neverreachinghisjaw.Insteadtheyrested on the figure. Once

againitwasthere,silhouettedagainst the window. Coreyswallowedhard.Thistimehewas not drunk. He’d barelyhadtwobottlesofBudweiser.

Not daring to remove hiseyes from the silhouette,Corey started tomove to hisright, to where the lampstood.

“Don’tturnthelighton.”Corey froze. For a

momenthe forgot tobreathe.He opened his mouth tospeak, but no words came.Notthatheknewwhathewasgoing to say. Formingthoughtswashardenough.

“Turnthelighton,andI’llbegone.”

NonethelessCoreyfelthisfingers reaching out towardsthelamp.Heknewhewasn’tclose enough to reach thelamp, but his fingers seemed

tothinkotherwise.Itwasasifsome primal instinct wasforcing his hand tomove, totakeawaythedarkness.

“Listen to me, CoreyJordan.It’stimetoputanendtothepressure.”

Somehow he managed tofindhisvoice.“Pressure?”

“Yes.DuncanLeman.”Once again Corey

swallowed hard. His throat

was incredibly dry. Whichmade little sense, since he’donly recently polished off abottle of liquid. Theway theSilhouette said that name. Itsounded very familiar.Somehow, although Coreycouldn’t quite get his mindaround how, he knew heshould recognise the voice.“Who…who are you?” heaskedlamely.

“That,Icannotanswer.”

For the first time Coreynoticed that the Silhouettehad its head turned awayfrom him. Which was nice,Coreyconsidered,sincethoseopaque eyes scared the crapoutofhim.“Whynot?”

“Itisunimportant.”The answer was simple

enough, butCoreywanted toobject to the finality of it.Somehow, thispersonwas inhis house. Once more

standing in themiddleof theroom,litbythelightsoutsidethe window. And there wasno way he could have gotinside.Coreymadeapointoflockingthefrontdoorbehindhimwhen he returned home,and considering the weatherlately,Corey had not openedanywindoworthebackdoorin days. And then there wasthepreviousnight….

Drunk he might have

been, but Corey was certainhe had seen the Silhouette.Certain that the person hadvanishedonce the lightcameon.Ofcourse,he’dconvincedhimself it was his drunkenimagination…but now, hereinhislivingroom,herealisedthat deep down he had beencertainallthetime.“Turnthelight on and Iwill be gone,”thethinghadsaid.Anditwasa thing,of thatCoreywas inno doubt. Whatever was

standinginhislivingroom,itwasn’t human. It simplyclotheditselfinthesilhouetteofone.

“Go to St. Andrew’sSquare.”

The voice brought Coreyback. St. Andrew’s Square?He knew it. Itwasn’t too farfrom where he worked. Heopenedhismouthtoaskwhy.

“Don’t ask,Corey Jordan.

Go there. 22a. St. Andrew’sSquare. The door will beopen,enterthehouse,andonthe top floor you will findDuncanLeman.”

“It’s his house?” Evenbefore the Silhouette noddedits head, Corey knew theanswer.He felt an odd senseof excitement suddenly, as ifhe’d taken a direct hit ofadrenalin.“Whatdoyouwantmetodothere?”

“Just go there, CoreyJordan.Youwillknow.”

Corey nodded his headslowly, and with his nextwords he knew he’d made apromise that could not bebroken. No matter theconsequences.“Okay.”

*St. Andrew’s Square was

one of those old quadrantsthat Corey usually loved to

visit. Located in SouthKensington it was rathertypicalofwhathe’d come toexpect in London. A smallgarden in the centre,cordoned off with blackrailings, and surrounded byVictorian houses with threestoreys. What he loved somuchwasthefactthataroundthe corner was a built-uparea, very cosmopolitan. Acomplete contrast to thequadrant he was standing in.

OnlyLondonseemedtocarryoff the mix of old and newwithsuchgrace.

This time, though, therewas nothing about lovebehind his reason for beingthere.Thistimeiswassimpleneed.Hehadtofindoutwhatthe Silhouette was talkingabout, and more…he neededto do this. He didn’t knowwhy, but something wascompellinghim.

He walked around thequadrantuntilhecameto22.The building was threestoreys up, and downbelow…“22a” was engravedonthewallbesidethedooratthebottomofthestonesteps.He noticed that the door, asthe Silhouette had promised,was indeed open. Only afraction, but enough forsomeone looking closely tonotice.

Coreylookedupanddownthe street, just to make surehe wasn’t being observed. Itwas almost five in themorning, and all those withcommon sense were tuckedawayinbed,happilyenjoyingtheir trips to Nod. Grippingthe collar of his coat tightlyabout his neck, Coreydescendedthestepscarefully.

Once he reached thebottom he stopped. He

glanced up the way he hadcome, worry plaguing hismind. Hewas almost certainhewasbeingwatched,yethecould see no sign of anyone.Trying to ignore the coldfeeling running down hisback, he gently pushed openthedoorandsteppedoverthethreshold into the basementflat that belonged to DuncanLeman.

Hefoundhimselfinalong

corridor,whichremindedhimof his Gran’s old place fromwhen he was a kid. Thegrossest wallpaper he’d everseenlinedthewalls,madeupof distorted squares in themost lurid shades of greenand yellow. The carpet itselfclashed hideously with thewalls,beingadarkburgundycolour. Corey found himselfshuddering, and this timenotbecause of his unease, butrather through repulsion at

thedécor.Thedoorat thefarendof

thehallwaywasopen,andhecouldseethekitchenbeyond.Much like the hallway, itseemed to be from anotherage. He knew he was in aVictorian house, but he’dexpectedabitofmodernstuffinside. Mind you, hereflected, considering wholivedhere….

There were a further two

doors along the left side ofthe hallway, both of whichwereslightlyajar.Cautiously,Corey crept along thepassageway and approachedthe nearest door. As luckwould have it, lookingthroughthecrackinthedoor,Corey saw that it wasDuncan’s bedroom. And thebedwasoccupied.

Coreypushed at thedoor,hoping that it would not

creak. It didn’t. He steppedinto the bedroom and drewcloser to the bed. The duvetcovereda rather lumpyform,which he guessed wasDuncan. But then his eyesalightedon thesmallershapeontheothersideofthebed.

Corey frowned andcontinuedtocreeparoundthebed. When he was closeenoughtogetagoodviewofthe upper half of the second

shape,Corey sawawoman’sheadpokingoutoftheduvet.

Not just any womanthough.ItwasIracema….

It was she who Duncanhadbeensoracistto,andnowhere they were…in bed.Together!

Corey swallowed. Heheardasoundbehindhimandturned.

Behind was the window,

and before that window…Coreywasunsurprisedtoseethe Silhouette. He wanted tospeak, to ask something, buthe didn’t wish to disturb thesleeping formsuntilheknewforsure.

The Silhouette nodded.For a moment Coreywondered what it wasnodding at, then he realised.It was an answer to hisunspokenquestion.

Hishearthardening,Coreyturnedtofacethebed.

He had no idea how hewasgoing tohandle this, buthe knew he had to dosomething. He opened hismouthtospeak,butthewordscame from the Silhouette.Thewordssentashiverdownhim.Notbecauseofwhatwassaid,butbecauseofthevoice.He had heard it before, ofcourse, but now he knew

whosevoiceitwas.Hisown.“This ends now, Duncan

Leman.”Corey heard the

movementbehindhim,buthedidnotdare to look. Just theknowledgethattheSilhouettehadhisvoicewasenough—toactually see himself was notsomething Corey was readyfor.But the choicewas soon

taken out of his hands. TheSilhouette came into his lineofsight.Firstasadarkshapeontheperipheryofhisvisionand then before him, as itnearedthebed.

Coreyfelthisbreathbeingstolen away from him. Hestood there, immobile. Ableonly to watch. As theSilhouette approached thebed, the shadow fell off it—him. As the shadow fell,

dripping away like watered-down oil, Corey took in theappearance of hisdoppelganger. There wassomething almost clinicalaboutthesuithewore.Itwasa dull grey affair, straightslacks, and a body-huggingtop, with a short but tight-looking collar. Coreyswallowed when he got hisfirst full look at his double’sface.Ifhehadpassedthemanin the street, Coreywas sure

he’d probably have nevernoticed the similarity, sincetheSilhouette’sfacewasalotharsher than his own. It washisface,butatthesametimeit wasn’t. The full Frakes-style beard only helped tohighlight the differences.Sunken eye sockets,containing the orbs of purewhitethathehadseenbefore,and a nose that had clearlybeen broken on severaloccasions.

His observation of hisdistorted selfwas interruptedby movement from the bed.His head snapped around, intime to see Duncan struggleinto a sitting position. Assoon as Duncan’s eyesalightedon theSilhouettehismouth fell open. Amidst thefear, Corey also sawrecognitioninDuncan’seyes.

“No, you’re not dreamingthistime,DuncanLeman.”

Duncanmoved his mouthtospeak,butnowordscame.In a way, Corey found thatoddly reassuring, knowingthat it wasn’t only him whohadtroublegettingwordsoutin the presence of hisdoppelganger.

“You knew this timewould come,” the Silhouettecontinued. “The scales ofjustice are tilting, and not inyourfavour,DuncanLeman.”

Corey looked over at hisdouble again. For the firsttime in ages, a laugheruptedfromhismouth,whichcausedtheSilhouette tolookathim.Corey resisted the urge toflinch, but once more thenervous laugh cameout.TheSilhouettefrowned.

“Youhavenoneedtofearme, Corey Jordan. Only hedoes,”hesaidinacoldvoice,gesturingtoDuncanwithone

hand which, Corey noticed,wasdeeplyscarred.

“But,” Corey began, withadeepswallow,“you’re…”

“You?” The Silhouettenodded his head slowly.“Yes.Asoneofourfavouritewritersmighthavesaid,Iamyou, seen through a mirrordarkly.”

As explanationswent thatwasofnohelptoCoreyatall.

He shook his head. “I don’tunderstand.”

“Understanding later.Action now.” The Silhouetteresumed his attention onDuncan,whowas still sittingin his bed, silently watchingtheexchangebetweenthetwoCoreys. Iracema had yet tostir. A small mercy Coreywas thankful for. “Stand up,Duncan Leman. Face yourfatewithdignity.”

Duncan looked aroundwildly, and shook his head.Finally he found his voice,but when it came it waspitiful. “No,” he said barelyinawhisper.

The Silhouette raised ahand, and pointed a finger atDuncan.“Stand.”

Corey watched as, clearlydespite himself, Duncanremoved himself from thebed, revealing his nakedness

toCorey.Itwasn’t theactualsight of his lumpy nakedbody that repulsedCorey, somuchas the thought that thatnakedness was onceembracing Iracema. HisIracema!

“Yes, Corey Jordan. Suchrighteousrageisneeded.”

Something stirred in thedarkest corner of the room.Corey glanced over, and ablack shape, a shadow,

emerged from the corner,movingclosetohim.Withoutmeaning to, he opened hishand and the shadow driftedonto his palm. His fisttightened around somethinghard. Corey looked down,and saw the black club hewasholding.

“No, no,” Duncan said,sniffing away like a scaredchild.

Corey stepped forward,

fullyawareofwhathehadtodo.ScumlikeDuncanLemanwerenotallowedtocontinue.Stealing Iracema from him,the racist attacks, everythingabout Duncan was wrong.Duncan staggered backagainst the wall, his wholebodyshaking.

“And now your dreamcomes true,DuncanLeman,”theSilhouettesaid.

“Please no. I’m sorry. I

didn’t…”“Don’t you dare, Dunc! I

always knew you werescum,”Coreysaid,raisingtheclub in the air. “I just neverrealised how much.” And,with a sadistic pleasure heneverknewhecouldpossess,Corey proceeded to strikeDuncanwith the club.Againandagainandagain….

*

It was sometime laterwhenCoreystopped,hisragehaving drained away. Helookedatthepulpymessthathad once been DuncanLeman,andhe steppedback,the club falling out of hishand.He felt satisfied, yet atthe same timedisgustedwithhimself. He knew that,without a doubt, the worldwas a better place withoutpeople like Duncan, but hestill felt sickened by the

violence he was able to dishout.

He turned to theSilhouette.Explanationslater,hehadsaid.Well,itwaslater,and Corey was sure hedeservedsomeanswersnow.

The Silhouette was gone.Corey looked around theroom frantically, and as hiseyes came to rest on the bedtheywidenedinhorror.Therewas no one else in the bed,

and no sign that there everhadbeen.Histhroatwentdry.

He rubbed his fingerstogether, feeling thewarmness between them. Heglanced down, and noticedthe dark red substance thatcoveredhishand.Blood.Theexact same blood thatcovered the corpse on thefloorbeforehim.

“Ohgod,”Coreybreathed,asrealisationdawned.

OneMistakeHelookeddownatthecardinhis hand; the rather shakycard. No, that wasn’t true.Cards, being inanimateobjects, didn’t shake bythemselves. It was his handthat was shaking, the nervesthreateningtogetthebetterofhim. Clasping his wrist, heattempted to steady theoffendinghand,andfocussedonce more on the address

scribbled on the back of thecard. He had to admit hishandwriting was pretty shit,really,andhardtoreadatthebest of times. And writingwhile nervous helped hisscript none. Still, he wasfamiliarwithhisownwritingenoughtobeabletodecipherthe address, and looked upfrom the card at the smallhousebeforehim.

No doubt about it. The

addresswasthesame.But did he really want to

dothis?His legs started moving,

onefootdown,thentheother,takinghimtowardsthehouse.He stoppedat the frontdoor,and his knuckles rappedloudly on the cracked wood.Hewaited.Andashewaitedhethought.Whywashehere,and why in the hell had heeven bothered calling the

numberonthecard?It seemed public phone

boxeswerebecomingathingof the past, something onlythose unwilling to changewith the times would use.Fossils. Like him. He wasbarely intohis forties, butherefused point blank to buy amobilephone,orhaveoneofthose, what did they callthem, oh yeah, one of thosecompacts. They seemed to

cost a lot of money to dothings he didn’t understand.Besides which, he alwaysreasoned, ifpeoplewished tocontact him they couldalways ring him at home.House phones had servedpeople well since the latenineteenth century, so whythis bizarre need to haveevery part of their livessubject to the intrusions ofothers? Bad enough thoserandom companies could

contacthim in theprivacyofhisownhome;hedidn’twantto be intruded uponwhenhewas out and about on hisstrolls. All thisnotwithstanding, publicphoneboxeswerestillabout,and as they had been sincetime immemorial, they werestilllitteredwithcallingcardsfrom those offering sexservices and the like.Personally he had neverpicked up one of those cards

before; indeed he barelylooked at them, preferring tofocus his attention on theworld outside the phone boxwhenevertheneedtouseonetookhim.But,barelyanhourago, something pulled himtowardsaparticularcard.Discovering the Art of

Astral Projection it said. Fora moment, phone still to hisear,hehadlookedatthecard,completely oblivious towhat

hismotherwassayingontheother end of the line. It wasalmost as if he were sinkingunderwater.Hewasawareofhis mother’s voice, but thewordsmadenosensetohim,the sounds simplyreverberated around his ear.Hisattentionwassquarelyonthe card, which his handtenderlypulledoffthewallofthebooth.Hewascarefulnottodamagethecard,almostasif by doing so he would

offend the person who hadplaced it there. He held itclose tohiseyes; thenumberat the bottom was in thesmallestprinthe’deverseen.Clearly the owner of thenumberwantedpeopletopayattention, not merely glanceat the card like all those thatofferedthepromiseofsexualpleasuringofvariouspartsofthebody.

He couldn’t recall if he’d

actually bothered sayinggoodbye to his mother (Hehoped he had—his motherwouldnothavebeenhappyifhe’dsimplyhunguponher!),but next thing he recalled hewas dialling the number onthe card. He punched thenumbers in, carefullyrecheckingthecardwitheachindividual number, just tomake sure he didn’t get itwrong.

The call was answeredbefore the first ring hadcompleted, as if whoever itwashadbeensitting,handonthe receiver, waiting. Therewas no hello, just the soundof steady breathing. He trieda hello himself, alwaysbelieving politeness costnothing, but he’d barely got“hell—”outbeforeaveryoldvoice issued out an address.Urgently he reached into hisinner coat pocket and pulled

out a pen. He scribbled theaddressdown,andwasaboutto double check the doornumber, having been caughtoffguard,whenthelinewentdead.

For a few seconds heremained as he was; phonereceiverinonehand,thecardintheother.Thenitoccurredto him. The address givenwas only a twenty-minutewalkaway.

Now he waited for ananswer, still no clearer onwhy he was doing this thanhe had been when he’d firstpeeled the cardoff theboothwall. He leaned in closer tothedoor,brieflywonderingifperhapstheownerofthatoldvoice had died in the twentyminutes since he’d given theaddress.Afterall,ithadbeena very old voice, and in hisexperience old people tendedtodieatthemostinopportune

times. But no, he could hearmovement from beyond thedoor. He stepped back, notwantingtoappeartooeager.

The door creaked open.Actually creaked, like in theold horror films that hismother had forced him towatchwhenhewasachild—a millennia ago it seemed.Like he didn’t sit thereshitting his pants throughevery single minute of the

films.Nowhefeltlikesoilinghis underwear again, but heclenched himself, bothliterally and figuratively. Atfirst, even with the lightcomingfromthestreetbehindhim,hecouldnotseeasinglething beyond the openeddoor, as if some hithertounknown depth of darknesslived inside the house. Hiseyesadjustedandhe saw theold man standing there,regarding him with baleful

eyes.“Hello, Robert,” the old

mansaid.*

Robert followed the mandownthehallway,whichwasactually little more than anarrow passage through theground floor of the house.Along the right wall astaircase led up. A verythreadbare carpet covered

each step, full of burns andstains, the origins of whichRobert didn’t much wish tothink about. The wholehouse, which he eventuallygot to see in its entirety,carried with it a bearing ofneglect, as if the old manmerely existed in the house,not lived. There were signsthat once upon a time thehouse had been lived in, butthat timehad longpassedforwhatever reason. Robert

didn’t want to consider thereason;somethingswerebestleftunknown.

He stopped at the kitchendoorway, situated at the rearof the house, and lookedaround.Neglectwasputtingitmildly. Filthy pots and panslittered the sideboards; plateswith bits of food welded tothem,andcupslyingontheirsides, the starch staining theinsides so intensely itwas as

if it had become part of thenaturalcolouringofthechina.The stove itself was,unsurprisingly, old andrusted, except for one singlesquare of the hob whichgleamed against the rest ofthe dirty metal. This, Robertguessed, was the single partof the cooker still in use.Afterall,asbadashelooked,the old man clearly still atesomethingtosustainhimself.

Then there was the oldman.

Robertwatched him sit ata small table, pushed againstone wall. Papers and emptyfood tins littered the flooraround it. He seemed to bebroken.Notinametaphoricalsense, but actuallyphysicallybroken. His entire shapelookedasifeverysingleboneinhisbodyhad, atonepointor another, been snapped out

ofplaceandlefttoresetonitsown. The result was a manwhowalkedlikeamarionettewithout strings, coming torealise that it could in factwalk unaided, albeit in afashion thatbarelyresembleda normal human. His facewas also one of brokenness;bruise upon bruise, an openwelt above one eye, a nosethathadseenbetterdays.Fora second Robert wasreminded of the pictures

newspapers liked to printfrom time to time, remindingpeople who were trying toenjoy their lives of the bitterand twisted nature of theworld in which they lived.Grannies battered in theirownhomes,granddadsbeatensenseless while gettingmoney from an ATM intown.Yes,that’showthisoldman’s face looked, likesomeone had really been totownonit.

“How do you know myname?”Robert asked finally,no longer able to stand theeeriesilencethatpervadedthehouse.Andittrulywassilent.Lifeless.

“You touched my card,”theoldmanreplied,hisvoicelike dried leaves.To him theanswer was an obvious one.Robert wanted to argue this,tell theoldmanthat thatwasno answer. It explained

nothing. “You want me toteach you how to projectyourselfbeyondyourbody?”

Did he? Robert wasn’t sosure.Hestillwasn’tevensurewhy he was here; what hadcompelledhimtopickupthecard, to call the number, andto visit the house? And hesure as hell wasn’t sure whyhewouldwant to take a tripout of his body. So heshrugged. “Suppose so,” he

said.“Good.Closeyoureyes.”Robertblinked.“That’sit?

Nobuildup?Just‘closeyoureyes’? I thought I had to gointo a trance or something.Imagine myself lifting up,pulling away, looking downatmybody.”

“Ah.”Theoldmansmiledat Robert, but his rheumyeyes contained the same

balefulness. “Do you thinkthatwillhelp?Areyousomekind of expert now?” heasked, his voice becomingmore forceful with everyword.

“Well…” Robertswallowed. Hard. “No, ofcourse not, but I sawsomething about it on MostHaunted the other week andYvettesaid…”

The old man sighed.

“Robert.Just.Close…Your…Eyes.”

Robert did so. He didn’tknow what the old man wasexpecting as a result, butnothing happened. ApartfromRobertbecomingawareof the smells in the house.Rank, acrid; the smell of thedead.Hewenttoopenaneye—justtheone,mind,togetaquick peek to see what theold man was up to—but no

sooner had he thought aboutopening that eye than he feltsomethinggrabholdofhim.

Not his body. Oh no,because at that moment itoccurred to him that hewasn’t his body. That wasmerely a shell, a vessel inwhich he moved, became apart of the substantialworld.He was something elseentirely. And it was thatsomethingelsethatwasbeing

grabbed, pulled, yanked outof the body with such forcethat he could not resist. Notthat he would have knownhowto.Untilasecondagohedidn’tevenrealisehewasthissomethingelse.

There was his body,slumped against the grimywalloftheoldman’skitchen,now vacant of its owner. Hewas above it, floating in theether, a spectral mass of

conscience looking down ona limited form that had onceconstrainedhim.

Wait;whywashethinkingsuch things? He was RobertHoard of East Acton; anobody, sure, just a smallman going about his ownbusiness. Aspirations nil; ashelf filler in a localsupermarket, and slave tohismother. Still. After fortyyears.

“Because, Robert, on theastral plane everyone is highandmighty.”

Robert tried to lookaround,findthesourceofthevoice, but he couldn’t. Lookthat is; he had no eyes withwhich to look. He knew thevoice, though, even out hereon the “astral plane.” It wastheoldman.

Robert tried to speak, butshock of shocks he didn’t

knowhow.Hehadonlyeverspoken with his physicalvoice. A—what? Astralvoice? Yes. An astral voicewas new to him and he hadnoideahowtouseit.

“You’ll work it out. Youshallbehereforawhile.Andyou’ll discover that althoughyou are literally high outhere,youarefarfrommighty.Now, if you don’tmind, I’mjust going to borrow your

bodyforawhile.”Mind? Of course he

minded. But what could hepossibly do to stop the oldman? There was nothing hecould do because he wasnothing. Just thought,intangible and hanginguselesslyintheether.

Hismindwas all over theplace.Perhapshewashavinga mind panic? That’s whathappenedwhenyoupanicked

after all; your mind goes allover the place, not able tofocus on any one thing.Instead it was in little bits;here, there and everywhere.Analysing the wrong things,goingdown thewrongpaths,and not paying attention tothe immediate issue. If thatwasso, thenyes,Robertwashavingamindpanicattack.

Hewaseverywhere in thehouse at once. In the skanky

bedroom in which the oldmanusedtosleep,backwhenhe did sleep, which wasprobably before the dayswhen he used the room as adumping ground for moretrash. At the same time hewas in the lounge, whichunsurprisingly contained avery ancient TV, a hugewoodenboxwiththesmallestscreen, the kind Robert hadseen inpictures fromthe late’50s,and,ofcourse, thenow

anticipated mess and generallook of abandonment. Allover the house it was thesame;aplacewheresomeoneused to live, probably withsome contentment, but nowthat happiness had moved,replaced by apathy that wasverging on clinicaldisassociation. The old mansimply did not view thishouse as a home any more,but a prison unworthy ofrespect. Walls that kept him

fromtheworldbeyond.Robert wondered where

that had come from.Somehow, deep down, heknew he was right, that theman truly believed this washisprison.

What was it DouglasAdams had once written?Don’t Panic! Possibly thebest advice in the world.Panic was not somethingRobert tended to do a lot,

after all, his mother prettymuch controlled most of hislife so he had little space inwhichtoloseit.

His mind was rambling.Hehadtofocus.

TheoldmanhadtalkedofborrowingRobert’sbody,andconsidering the state of theold man’s body, Robertwasn’tsurehemuchlikedtheidea of that. God knewwhatstate his own would be in

whenhegotitback.Itwas the thoughtof that,

more than anything else, thatgave him his focus back.Hewasbackinthekitchen,onceagain looking at the scenefromabove.Hisbodystartedtostir.Atfirst itwas just thefingers, twitching as if hewere dreaming. Only it wasnot he, thiswas for sure.Hewas still up near the ceiling,an abstract collection of

thoughts with no form toaffectanything.However…A thought occurred to

him. Surely if the old mancouldsomehowtransfertohisbody, then Robert could dothe same. All he had to dowasgetintheoldman’sbodyfirst, rouse it,and then tieuphisownbody.Perhaps a fewthreats, a bit of minordamage, and the old man

would vacate. Robertmentally shrugged. At thispointhehadlittleelsetolose.

Shuttinghisastraleyes,anact that didn’t actually blockanything out, but merelyallowedhimtofocusinwards,he picturedwhat itwould belike to be in the old man’sbody.Frail, fullofachesandunwanted spasms. No longerable to digest the foods helikedsomuch.Nomorefatty

burgers, excess amounts ofpop. Just a carefullycontrolleddietand…Ohmygod!He was there. Within a

split second of being in thatold, disgusting, body Robertknew he wanted to beanywhere but. There werethoughts, images, not of hismaking. There was no doubtin his mind—if, indeed, heeven could claim to have his

own mind while inside thebodyofthisdisgustingthing!—that he had not lived thelife he was now beingexposedto.His lifehadbeendull, yes, boring beyondwords,butatleastithadbeensafe,freeofsuchsinasthis!

The man, Bernard JacobRubin,hadbeensuchagoodfellow in his younger years.Always there for his familyand his friends. This house

hadwelcomedmanyapersonover the years; no one wasturned away from his happyhome. His wife would busyherself in the kitchenpreparingfoodanddrinksfortheir guests while heentertained themwith stories—for Bernard was astorytellerof thefinestorder.People were always tellinghim towrite them down, buthe never truly believed inhimself. Then one day they

took in a young woman,Georgia, the daughter ofFrank and JulieNettles, verydear friends of his wife andhe.Georgiawassomethingofa troublemaker, butBernardsaw the light in theseventeen-year-old. Alas, itseemed Bernard saw toomuch,andalotmorethantheyoungwomansawinherself.Soon Bernard was lured totheteen’sbedroomand…

“No!”Robertshouted,andexpelledhimselffromtheoldman’sbodywithhaste.

He hovered there, onceagain mind without form,only this time he feltcontaminated. He had seenwhathappenedandwantedtoshut it out, but he could not.Even as he pulled out ofBernard’sshell thescenehadcontinued, the eventsspeeding up like some fast-

forwardedfilm,takingRobertrightuptothemomentwhereBernardhadopened thedoorto him less than a half-hourago.

Robert was revolted. Thehatred, the self-loathing.Once again, though, it wasnot truly him feeling this.These emotions, intense,eatingawayatthecore,camefromtheoldman.Bernard.

Robert now understood,

buthewashelplesstopreventwhatwasgoingtohappen.

Robert’s body was on itsfeet, animated by thepresence of Bernard. Hereached beneath the table,rummaged through the trash,and pulled out a steel pipe.He looked up, and Robertwas shocked at the lack offeeling on his own face. ItwasasifBernardwasbeyondbeingabletoexpresstheguilt

that had eaten at him everysingledayfor the last twentyyears.

“You see, Robert, this iswhat I must do. Penance formy sin… Never in my lifehave I ever thought oftouching, even looking at,another woman. I had mywife, what did I need otherwomen for? We let thisGeorgia in, did our best tohelp her and she…” Bernard

shook Robert’s head. “Yes,shewaslegal,butshewasthedaughterofafriend,someoneI took in. People tellme sheledmeon,but…”Evennow,the words were beyond him.Helpless to act, all Robertcould do was listen to whatBernard had to say. That itcame in Robert’s own voicedisturbed him greatly, evenmore than what he had seenofBernard’slife.“Itwasthisbody,” Bernard continued,

pointingattheoldbodylyingon the dirty floor, “that gavein, allowed itself to be leddown the dark path ofindiscretion.Anditmustpay,as I have paid by losingeverything.”

Robert knew of whatBernard spoke. His friends,hisfamily,evenhiswife,whohadpromisedtostickbyhimunto death, had turned onhim. Not even wishing to

hear his side of the story.Since that time he had beenalone… JustBernard and hisguilt.

Robert wanted to speak,tellBernardthatitwasnothisfault. He had seen the lifeBernardhadlived,watchedasthe teenager manipulatedthings, twisted everything.Bernardneverstoodachance.

Robert knew from hisbrief tour of Bernard’s

memorythathewasthelatestin a long line of peoplewhoBernard had lured to hishouse,toborrowtheirbodies,use them as tools of hispunishment.

In his whole life, Roberthad never wanted to blockanything out as much as hedid this. And he knew,whatever theoutcomeof thisnight, his safe life was goneforgood.Andsohewatched

—whatelsecouldhedo?—asBernard raised the pipe andbegan beating down on hisown,vacant,body…

*Time passed, as it was

wonttodo,andRobertcoulddo nothing but wait. Floataround the house, exploreevery nook and cranny,anything to keep himselfoccupied and out of thekitchen. Away from the

beaten pulp of Bernard’sbody.

Robert had watched,horrified by the pureviciousness of Bernard’sassault, raining down blowafterblowwiththesteelpipe.Eventually, after whatseemed like hours but wasprobably only twentyminutes, Bernard hadstopped, turning away fromthebody,payingitnofurther

mind. He had gone to thesink, and washed the bloodoff the pipe and Robert’shands, before returning thepipe to its hiding placeamongst the rubbish beneaththetable.

“I will be back,” Bernardhad said, looking up. “Makeyourself at home. Don’t doanything I wouldn’t do,” headded.

Robert was struck by the

lack of feeling in Bernard’svoice.He couldonlypretendto understand how much theself-hatred ate its way insideBernard; even with thesnapshot view of Bernard’slife, Robert could not trulycomprehend livingwith suchdarkness for twenty years.Bernardhadleft,walkingoutof thehouse inRobert’s skinas if he’d only borrowed ajumper.

Robert was left to floataround uselessly. Exploringthe house was no adventure;itwasdisgustingandvile.Forsomeone to think so littleabout themselves, that they’dallow their home to get insuch a state… It sickenedRobert, who lived in a tidyhouse, sure he didn’t have aworld-shapinglife,buthehada good life, one of self-respect. Looking around, hewondered just what would

need tohappen inhis life forit to sink to the level ofBernard’s.

Robert shook his astralhead. What was he doing,tryingtosympathise?Bernardhadbroughthimtothishousebynefariousmeans.Towhatend? To play this twistedgame of self-loathing? Whathad happened was wrong,Robert could not and wouldnotdenythat,butforBernard

tocarryonthewayhewas…it was one sin compoundedonanother.

How many people hadBernardbroughtintohisdarkand twisted world? Almosttwenty years’ worth ofvisitors, stealing theirbodies,using them to inflictunimaginablepainonhisownuselessshell.Leavingthemtofloat around the house,helpless,while Bernardwent

out into the real world, hisbody healing from the worstoftheinjuries.

Disassociationatitsworst.Bernard was not paying forhis error, he was distancinghimself from it. Dishing outthe punishment on his body,as if itwasn’t himwhogavein all those years ago. No,Robert, decided, the cyclehadtoend.

*

It was the early hours ofthemorning, by the time hisbody sauntered into thekitchen; yes, actuallysauntered, carrying bags ofshopping, as if the old maninhabitingithadnotacareintheworld.Robertwouldhavesmiledtohimselfifhecould.Bernard looked up, to whereheimaginedRobertwouldbe.

“You’ll soon be back inyour body,” Bernard said,

Robert’svoicehavingalreadystartedtotakeonthegravellycadence of the old man. Hehefted the carrier bags ontothetable.“Neededfood.”

Robert didn’t know why.If Bernard was so intent onpunishing himself, then whybotherwiththesporadictripsto the shops? Then again,soon it wouldn’t matter.Obviously, though, Bernardhadbeenuptomorethanjust

shopping. It wasn’t even teno’clock when he’d left thehouse, and now the sun wasback up, the sounds of lifereturning to the worldoutside.

He waited patiently,watchingasBernardpotteredaroundthekitchenlikehehadall the time in theworld.Heopened cupboards, placingthe new tins next to thealready half-opened ones,

pushing aside maggots likethey were nothing. Robertwas glad to see that Bernardhadn’t bought any freshproduce,ashedidn’tthinkhecould stomach seeing theresults of such previousshopping. Rotten skins,peelings… If he could,Robertwouldhaveshudderedatthethought.

“Right,” Bernard said,approaching the body on the

floor.“Timetochangeagain.I expect, like everyone else,you’ll run, full of judgmentson my life.” He glanced up.“Justremember,itcouldhaveeasily been your life,”Bernard said, Robert’s eyes,nowalien tohim, lookingupat the ceiling, piercing hisastralselfwithatwistedglint.

Robert doubted it. In hisentire life he had never doneanything wrong; his mother

had made sure of that. Noteven a slight indiscretion.SolidanddependableRobert,that was him. He was nosaint,hehadmomentswherehe had wanted to do somebad things to others, but hewas too weak to do so. Tooboring. And boring meantsafe, as his mother oftenremindedhim.

Bernard closed Robert’seyes, and slowly the body

slumped into a heap on thedirty floor.Robertwaitedhistime. He could not seeBernard’s astral body, but hecould feel it. A sense ofmovement about him, almostlikeaninvisiblebreeze.Soonit was gone, which meantBernard had returned to hisowndamagedbody.

Robertwastednotime.Heshotdownfromtheetheranddivedbackintohisownbody.

His eyes flickered open.Smiling Robert stood,stretching his arms and legs,his back, his everything. Itfeltgoodtobebackhome.Heglanceddownattheoldbody,and this timehedid shudder.Bernard was wrong, Robertwas not going to run away,full of his judgments. Thefinal judgment on Bernard’slife had been made. It hadbeen painful, but Robert hadmanaged to return to

Bernard’s body, forced itawake…

Hecroucheddownnexttothe old man and rolled himover. The light from thekitchen window glinted offthe steel blade of the knifestickingoutof theoldman’schest. Robert didn’t knowwhat had beenmore painful.Moving theoldbrokenbody,orrammingtheknifeintothechest,shovingitinjustunder

the breast bone, piercing theheart beneath. Robert hadstayed in the body a bitlonger, feelinga strange rushas theoldbodybegan todie,and something changedwithinhim.Hebecameawarethatboring,althoughequatingsafe,meantawasted life.Hehad wanted to stay for theentire ride, but as the finalbreath came he had felthimself being dragged downwith it, and so had forced

himselfbackoutofthebody.Leaving it on the floor, alifeless corpse, in the exactsame position Bernard hadleft it, knife hidden fromsight.

Robert smiled, rising tohis feet again. He wonderedhow long it had takenBernardtorealisethathehadreturnedtoadeadbody.Howlong before Bernard’s ownlifewassnuffedout?

As hewalked through thehallway Robert realised hedidn’t care. Bernard wasgone, the hatred with him,and now no one else wouldbe contaminated by hisdarkness. He opened thedoor, feeling a sense of self-satisfaction well up inside.Forthefirsttimeinhislifehehad done something thatwasn’t boring, and in sodoing had achieved theperfectmurder.

Hewasright,feelingdeathapproaching had changedhim. He would return home,and show his mother howboringhis lifewasnow.Andneveragainwoulditbeso.

Hestopped,onehandstillon the door, looking into thefaces of two police officers.The smile still plastered onhisface.

“Robert Hoard?” one oftheofficersasked.

“Um,yeah?”One officer nodded to

another, and out came thehandcuffs. “We’re arrestingyouforthemurderofGeorgiaWebber,”hebegan.

Robertdidn’theartherest,he merely felt the officerstake a hold of his arm andsnap the cuffs on. Webbertheyhadsaid,butRobertwasable to put two and twotogether. That wily old fox

Bernard had been busy thelast twentyyears,preparingabitatatime.Untilnow…

There was no doubt inRobert’s mind as to whoGeorgiaWebberwas.Twentyyears ago she had been ateenager called GeorgiaNettles, and she had takenadvantage of a once kindman, turned him into thevessel of self-hatred. Robertglanced back. The perfect

murder.Heclosedhiseyes.“Just remember, it could

have easily been your life.”Bernard’s finalwordsechoedinRobert’smind.

Andnowitwas.

Serere,APreludeTheGardenSagaPartOne:18thCentury

Newington Green, England,1788.Isobel Shelleywaited, as shepromised she would, but itwasgettingdarkand therainhad started to fall. Not thateither thing bothered herpersonally,butitwasterriblyinconvenient. She lifted her

lantern, which she did notreally need, of course, butappearances were important,andlookedouttothenortherncarriageway.TheGreenwasquiet, most people safelyindoors, sheltered from thecold, but Isobel could not besure she wasn’t beingwatched. Newington Green,hometothefree-thinkersanddissidents, had history, andthe people who tended togravitate to this place knew

better than to take things forgranted. Probably one of themany reasons she lovedlivingontheGreen.

The sound of hoof beatscrunching gravel drifted overtoher,andshefocusedontheapproaching shape. A gigpulledby a singlehorse, twopeople jostling about in thecarriage as the woodenwheelsmanagedtofindeveryditch and trough in the path.

Both figures were dressed inthe finest cloth, one lookingdown, his head bobblingaboutasifhewereasleep,butthe second, holding the reinsin his hands, was lookingfirmly ahead, mindful of themood of the horse. The gigslowed, and stopped rightnext to Isobel. She smiled,finally able to see thecountenance of the youngdriver.

Young and as radiant asever,HaretonWesley smileddownatIsobel,andtippedhisbicorn hat. “Miss Shelley,youarestilladiamondofthefirst water, I see. A pleasureindeed.”

Isobel curtsied slightly,with a smile of her own. IthadbeensometimesinceshehadseenanythingofHareton,andwasnotdispleasedtoseehim once more. “Young

Master Wesley, an’ you andthe gentleman like to followme?”

Thegentlemaninquestionlookedup,clearlynotasleep.An austere looking man ofsome fifty years (whichcertainlymeanthewasolder),he raised an eyebrow atIsobelandedgedhislipintheform of a very slight smile,which looked somewhatstrange on such a Friday-

facedman.Haretonlookedathim, no doubt awaitinginstruction, and thegentleman nodded. “AsMissShelley says, so shall it be,”the gentleman said, in anaccent that sounded almostGerman, although it had acadence that Isobelcouldnotquite place. She was notparticularlywelltravelled,butaccentsdidnotusuallystumpher so. “Do lead on, dearlady.”

“Asyouwish,”Isobelsaidand tuned away, lantern stillheld aloft, and led the wayacrosstheGreen.

*Oncethedoorwasbolted,

and the candles lit, allpretence of formality ceased.Isobel flung herself intoHareton’sarms,andtheirlipsmetwithgreatpassion.Forafull minute they remainedlike that, any thought of the

gentlemanmomentarilygone.Only the distant sound ofmovementintheroomservedtoremindthemthattheywerenotalone.Eventuallya sharpclearing of the throat torethemapart,andIsobellookedover at the gentlemandemurely.

“Sorry.HaretonandI…”“Have a history?” the

gentleman asked, his face nolonger as severe as it had

been out in the rain. Indeed,hisfeaturesnowseemedtobefull ofwarmth.He pulled upa seat and sat at the table,removing his hat and wig,both of which had becomesodden in the rain. His hairbeneath the wig was silver-grey,pulledbackandclubbedwithablackribbon,hisupperlipcoveredinanequallygreymoustache, but it was hiseyes that pulled Isobel in:deep brown, mortal eyes,

containing such compassion.It was rare to meet one oftheir kind with human eyes.Although they still managedto pass off as normal amongthe common folk, her eyeswerepale,thepigmentoftheiris slowly fading with thepassing of each year. Andsuchwastrueofmostoftheirpeople,exceptthosewhohadyet to experience the SecondDeath.The gentleman beforeher was clearly one such

person.Isobel batted her eyelids

bashfully like a betty,although she was anythingbut.Howeveritwasanimageshehadmaintainedforalongtime, fooling the gentry allthrough the Town, and shesaw no reason to reveal hertrueselftoamanshedidnotknow. Even if he had beensent by the Three. “Yes, sir,historywehave.”

The man nodded, turnedhis eyes to Hareton. “See tothe horse, we shan’t be heretoolong,Iwantthemreadytogo,”hesaidsharply.

Hareton bowed. “Ofcourse,MrHoltzrichter.”

He turned to leave, butwas prevented by Isobel’shand on his shoulder. Heglanced back at her, and shelooked at Mr Holtzrichter,steelinherpaleeyes.Demure

and prim might have been arole she liked to play withmortals around, but no oneordered another under herroofexcepther.

“You have both travelledfar,andIwillhaveneitherofyou leaving without fullstomachs.” For a momentIsobel was certain MrHoltzrichter was going tostandandstrikeher,suchwasthe coldness that swept over

his face, but it soon passedand he smiled, noddingsharply.

“Quite the chit, are younot?” he said, good humourinhisvoice.

“When the mood takesme,sir,butdon’tever takeittomeanIambacon-brained,”Isobel returned, careful tokeepherowntonelight.

“Indeednot.”

Isobel returned his smile,and curtsied, which broughtlaughter from Holtzrichter’sbelly.“Verygood,mydear,Ilikethecutofyou.”

“Hareton, be seated,”Isobel said. “I have a brothprepared already. MrHoltzrichter and I can bealone shortly. To conductour…business.”

Hareton walked over tothetableandsatononeofthe

hard chairs, but he did notquestion the source of suchbusiness. Isobel felt sure hedidnotknow,buthewasnotso foolish as to enquire infront of Mr Holtzrichter.Although he would returnlater. How could he not? Hewasonthehighropesandhe,too, remembered their lastencounter as clearly as she.Anditwasanencounterbothwishedtorepeat.

As she poured the brothinto bowls for the two menshe had to consider, onceagain, just why the Threewould send a special envoyall the way from France tosee her. Certainly she hadchosenhersideduringrecentevents,andsheapplaudedthereformstheLadyCelestehadputintoplaceoverthelastsixmonths, but she was oneamong tens of thousands oftheirkindinEngland,andnot

worthy of such attention. Ittroubled her. Rumour hadspread that Celeste was stillremoving her enemies, thosewhohad takensideswith theBrotherhood. Could Celestehave been misinformed andnow considered Isobel onesuchenemy?

She smiled at MrHoltzrichter,whohadofferedhisownsmileuponreceiptofhis broth. Maybe she was

looking too far into it, butthere was something shedidn’t like hidden behind hissmile. And his name…itsounded German, and didn’tCeleste have a Germanconsort?

Oncethemenhadfinishedtheir broth, Hareton left totend to the horse. Isobelbusied herself with cleaningthe bowls, all the whilefeelingMrHoltzrichter’seyes

onher back. She stopped fora moment, and asked; “IsyournameGerman?”

Mr Holtzrichter chuckled.“No,” he said, “although acommon mistake. It isPrussian.IwasborninalittletowncalledPosenin1722.”

Isobelturnedtohim.“Youare a young one, too, then,”shesaidwithacoysmile.“Soyou come from the home oftheTreeKing?”

For a moment MrHoltzrichterlookedconfused,thenhesmiled.“Ohyes,yourmad King George,” he said,referring to the tale of theailing king who had onceshook the branch of a treebelieving it to be KingFrederick William, theincumbentrulerofPrussia.

“Hardlymymadking,MrHoltzrichter. I have lived alongtime,seenthiscountryat

war many times over, ruledby many fools. Still,” sheadded wistfully, “it is myhome, although I am verymuch no longer of GreatBritain.” Holtzrichter noddedin acknowledgment of this,and Isobel smiled, thinkingthatanotherhundredyearsoflife and he too would notconsider himself of any onecountry. Their peopletranscended the loyalties ofmortal living. He was still

young, despite his outwardappearance,andhehadmuchto learn. One thing he didknow, though, was how toshow his host respect.Holtzrichter had not neededto offer up such intimateinformation; age andbirthplacewasrarelyasecretshared among their people,and Isobel took it as a markofrespect.

“For myself I am, as of

thismonth, one hundred andseventy-nine years, born inLondon to a modest family.And, as you can see,” sheadded indicated theirsurroundings, “little haschanged. Although let it benever said of me that I’ll befound punting up the RiverTrick.Financiallyorelse.”

“Being in debt is neversomethingtobeencouraged.”Holtzrichter frowned. “You

havelivedoveracenturyandthought to make nothing ofyourself? If I may make sobold,why?”

“You misunderstand me,sir,”Isobelsaidandsatatthetable. “I choose to be likethis,awomanoflittlemeans.You cannot live for over acenturybyattractingattentionto yourself. As I said, thiscountryhasbeenatwarwithonecountryoranotherforso

long now, an’ I were to benoticed…” She shook herhead.“This iswhyIcame toNewington Green. It has ahistory for attracting thedissidents, the outsiders,thosewhodonotconform tothe Church and the Crown.And those who wish toremaininvisible.”

Holtzrichter nodded. “Iunderstand. I was born poor,and lived a verymodest life,

until a visiting Frenchnoblewomannoticedme.Shechangedmylife,andnowshewishestochangeyours.”

Isobel was taken aback,but she had no doubt as towhom he meant. For a longmoment Isobel remained asshe was. Then she asked,softly, “why me? I keepmyselftomyself,I…”

“Webothknowthisisnotquite true, do we not,

Isabella?”For the second time in as

many minutes she did notknow what to say. She wascertain she had kept hertrackswellhidden.Ofcourseshehadbeendraggedintotherevolution,butasfarasmostknew it was with openreluctance. Very few knewthe truth, knew what exactlyIsabellaFrithhaddoneduringthat violent time, and only a

select few knew the trueidentity of Isabella Frith. Itappearedonesuchpersonhadtalked.Isobelletoutasighofdefeat. “I do not seekattentionand…”

“That is why Celeste hassentme toyou.”Holtzrichtersaid her name with such afeeling of intimacy itsurprised Isobel. The LadyCeleste was said to not keepmany close to her, but it

seemed Holtzrichter was oneof those. If he was not theLady Celeste’s consort whowas he to speak so freely oftheLadyCeleste?“Sheheardof what you did, the greatservice you did in the nameoftheThree…”

“They did not even exist,then,”Isobelpointedout.

“No, of course, not as abody, but as an idealembodied in Celeste. Her

desiretobringourpeopleoutofsuperstition,awayfromthemonster ofmyth, has alwaysbeenwithher.Ever since…”HereHoltzrichterpaused,andlookeddown. Isobelwatchedhim closely. He knew a lotmore about the LadyCelestethan hewaswilling to share.The mystery deepened; whowas he? Isobel knew betterthan to ask, it was clear shewouldnotbetold.“Sincethebeginning,” he continued,

“anditisthatidealforwhichyou fought. As a thank you,she wishes to offer yousomething. Something,”Holtzrichter looked aroundthe small room, “you haveclearlydeniedyourself.”

“Then perhaps it issomething I still do not careto have,” Isobel said,beginning to have an inklingof what was about to beoffered. “I prefer to be

unknown,MrHoltzrichter.”“Then,mydear lady,why

did you fight in Celeste’sname?”

“Because…” Isobelstopped.

For the first time inmanylongyearsshefeltsheneededto explain herself. Perhaps itwas because of what wasabout to be offered. Sheneeded the Lady Celeste to

understand why she stoodagainst the Brotherhood, andwhyshehadtoremainasshewas.Working for the benefitoftheThreeinherownway.Isobel stood. “Let me showyou why. I shall returnmomentarily,sir.”

For a short while Isobelleft her guest alone, as shevisited her private chambers,where she slept and keptherself hidden from the

world. She returned shortly,holding in her hands severalsheets of parchment. Sheplaced them beforeHoltzrichter, who watchedherwithgreatinterest.

He spread the parchmentout before him. “And whatarethese?”

“A few years ago I wasvisited by one of our people,Mr Holtzrichter, a coxcombnamed Edward Lomax.”

Isobel shuddered with thememory. “Something ailedhim, sir, ghosts and voices,one toomanymaggots in thebrain.Butstillhetalkedwithgreat intelligence. No lessqueer in the attic as KingGeorge he may have been,but Edward Lomax was aman of learning. And hebroughtwithhimtheBookofOrigin.”

Holtzrichterlookedup,his

dark eyes full of suspicion.Only the youngest of theirpeople did not know of theBook, and it was clear thatHoltzrichter was not amongthem. Somewhere in theworld there lived a beingcalled theAncient, theoldestof theirkind, and itwas saidthat he was there at thebeginning, in Egypt. TheBook was his, notes ofdreams and visions, tales oftheir combined history,

everything from how theirpeople came to be toprophecies of the future.TheBook,itwassaid,waslosttothe Ancient centuries ago,and he scoured the worldlooking for it. The look ofdisbelief in Holtzrichter’seyes no doubt matched hersfour years agowhen EdwardLomax had presented herwiththeBook.

Shenodded.“Hewascast

outoftheGreenwhenhewasfound strangling a boy ofonlytenyears,buthetooktheBookwith him. However, inhis haste, he left thesebehind.”Isobelpointedattheparchment. “These pages,translatedbyEdward,tellofaprophecy about aman calledSeker…”

“Seker?” Holtzrichterlookeddownatthepages.Hereachedintothebreastpocket

of his jacket and removed aquizzing glass.He picked upa piece of parchment andbrought the quizzing glassclose to it, not thathewouldneedsuchathing.Theirkindhadperfectvision.

“Yes, believed to guardthegatesoftheunderworldinEgypt mythology. Thesepages tell us that he will,apparently, return in thesecond millennium.” Isobel

resumed her seat and foundthe relevant passage. “AndSeker shall return in fire, tobringthechildrenbackhometoher.”

Holtzrichter did not lookup, but continued reading.“DoyoumeanthatJuliuswasright?”

“I thinkhehasdilutedthetruth. I do not fullyunderstand what Juliusteaches, but I do know that

what he claimed is a lie.AccordingtotheBookweareat over two hundred yearsawayfromSeker’sarrival.”

Holtzrichter did notcomment forawhile, insteadheread.

“This is why I followedCeleste,” Isobel continued.“The Brotherhood sought todescend our people intochaos,andthatisnotthegoalofSeker.Wearenotanimals,

despite our collective past,andwemustprovethat.”

Holtzrichter did notrespond, instead his attentionflickered from one piece ofparchment to another. For ashort while Isobel watchedhim, but it soon becameobviousthathewasnolongerawareofher,soshetookherleave of him and slipped outtoseeHareton.

*

As she stepped out of thehouse, back into the rain,Isobel did up her pelisse,casting a look back at MrHoltzrichterwhostillhadhisheadinthepages.Sheclosedthedoorandmadeherwaytothe stables, where she foundHareton readying the horseand gig for the long journeyaheadof them.He lookedupas soon as she entered, asmile stretching across hiscountenance. When she had

last seen HaretonWesley hehad been only seventeenyears,nolongeraboybutnotquiteaman.Although,Isobelrecalledwith a flush, he hadsoon found his way aroundherbodylikeamanusedtoabit o’ muslin. Now he wastwenty-three, a young man,andshehadtoconfesshehadfilledoutquitewell.

“Do you find meamiable?”heasked,enjoying

theattentionofhereyes.“Very.” Isobel bolted the

stable door and crossed overto him. “You have becomequite a man, Hareton,” shesaid, running a delicate handacrosshisfirmjaw.

Heheldupahand tostopher. “What of MrHoltzrichter?”

“He is else occupied,besideswhichIdonotcarea

groat.Canhestoptwopeoplein the high ropes?” At thisHareton lowered his hand,andIsobelcontinuedtostrokehis jaw. “I have heard wordofyourexploitstheselastsixyears, playing messenger tomy people. And now todeliver the Lady Celeste’sveryownenvoy?”

Hareton placed his handoverhersandbroughtittohislips. “Does thismean I have

proven my loyalty?” heasked, kissing the tips of herfingers.

“Itwouldappearso.”“Then you will grant me

mydesire?”“Andwhat is it theyoung

masterdesires?”Isobelasked,in her best meek voice, thetone of a doxy looking topleasehermaster.

“Tobewithyou forever,”

he answered, gently pullingher towards him. As theirbodies touched, he steppedbackwards until he wasresting against a woodenbeam.“Insixyearsmydesirehas not wilted. Everything Ihave done has been for thismoment.”

Isobeldidnottrustherselftospeak.Sixyearsago,whenthe young Hareton had firstcome to Newington Green

she had found herselfcompelled by his beauty, butshe could not give herselfovertohim,notinthewayhewanted. A physical paringwasonething,buttogiveherheart to a mortal…it wasbound to end in tears ofblood. But that did not stopHareton, even when helearnedwhatshewas.Soshehad sent him away; if hecouldprovehisloyaltytoherand her kind then she

promisedshewouldtakehim.Thatwassixyearsago,whenher world was governed byrules. Now the Three wereleading her people into aunified future of civilisation,anditwasnotforhertobringone into their ranks of herownaccord.

Butwhilehewashere…She pressed her body

against Hareton’s, feelinghim harden beneath his

breeches. “Take me now,Hareton!” she whispered inhisear.

AsHareton’s hands undidthe buttons that fastened herpelisse, Isobel lifted her facetothestableceiling,allowingHareton’s tongue to play onher throat. His hands foundtheirwayinsidehergownandreached to unlace the staysbeneath,buthisfingersbarelyfound the lace when a

banging came at the stabledoor. For a moment theylookedateachother,Isobel’seyes daring Hareton tocontinue, but despite thedesireburninginhimHaretonremoved his hands fromIsobel’s clothing and gentlypushedheraway.Still amanof his age, Isobel realisedwith disdain, a man ofscruple. She fastened herpelisse and watched himunbolt the door. If she truly

took him, eventually, likeevery one of her people, hewouldsoonrealisehewasnolonger bound by the rules oftheland.

Mr Holtzrichter stoodoutside the barn, the rainrinsing the powder from hishair down his face. Heglanced at Hareton, wholookedtotheground,hisfaceflustered, and then at Isobelwhomerelysmiledathim.“I

see,”hesaidwithacurtnod.“Miss Shelley, a moment ofyourtimeifyouplease.”

“Of course, sir,” she said,falling back into her publicrole, and stepped out of thestable.Asshepassedhimshenoticed Holtzrichter giveHareton a lopsided grin ofapology.

“Do peg the pardon of agentleman for taking one soyoungoffthehighropes.”

The younger man clearlydidnotknowhowtorespond.So he stepped back furtherinto the stable, and turnedbacktothehorse.

*“It is good you have

someone,” Holtzrichter saidas he closed the door behindhim. Isobel stopped by thetable, waiting for him toelaborate. “Later,”Holtzrichtersaid,withawave

ofahand.“Weshallreturntothat in a moment, but firstthese.” He indicated theparchment. “I would like totake them toLyon and studythem further, if you have nofurtherneedofthem?”

Isobel shrugged. Sherecognised that glint inHoltzrichter’s eyes, and wasremindedforamomentofthevacant look in EdwardLomax’s own eyes.

Obsession.Shedidnotknowwhytheparchment interestedHoltzrichter so, nor did shereally care. “If you so wish.Now, may we return to thereasonforyourvisit?”

“Of course, dear lady,”Holtzrichter said, tucking theparchment into one of hisHessianboots.“Asyouknowour people have lived indisarray,withnorulesor…”

“I do know, so if you

wouldcareto…”“Of course.” Holtzrichter

smiled,anditwasonebornofboth surprise and respect.“Celeste fears that war iscoming soon to the humanworld, a war at the heart ofwhich France will reside.Overthecenturiesourpeoplehave spent too much timeinvolving themselves in suchthings, and if we’re tomoveahead into civilisation, then

we cannot allow suchdistractions anymore. Itwassuch involvement thatallowed the Brotherhood togetthefootholdtheydid.”

“How does the LadyCeleste propose to stop thisfrom happening again? It ishuman nature to involvethemselves in things that donotconcernthem.Atraitourpeople have yet to grow outof.”

“Agreed, which is whythey need strong leadership.People who will show them.Eventually we shall becomeone with this world again,walk side by side withhumans, unseen andunsuspected forwhatweare.But it will take time andeffort,andstrongleaders.TheThree are creating thedomains, sections of theworld lead by a council ofLords and Ladies, with clear

directives.Celestewouldlikeyou to become Lady Isobel,oftheGreatBritainDomain.”

Isobel just stared atHoltzrichter.“Me?Ihavetoldyou,Iliketoremain…”

“Unnoticed. Yes, but youalso told me why youopposed the Brotherhood,thatyoubelieve in the idealsthat the Three represent. Ifour people are to emergefrom the shackles of myth

and legend then we needpeoplelikeyoutoshowthemhow.” Holtzrichter regardedher, and pulled a small pieceof rolled-up parchment fromhisjacket.Heplaceditonthetable.“Aninvitationtoattendthe first meeting of theDomain Council. If youchoosetoacceptthisposition,then the Three look forwardtoyourattendance.”

Holtzrichter stepped

towards Isobel and took herhand,whichhekissedgently.“NowItakemyleaveofyou,MyLady,andIthankyouforyour hospitality.” He turnedto leave, then looked back.“One further thing. If youchoose to accept this newposition, then you will needsomeone who can supportyou…in all ways. I believeMrWesleywouldbepartiforyou, and I do not see theThreeopposing such a thing.

In fact theywouldencourageit.”

With that Holtzrichterremoved himself fromIsobel’s home, leaving herlooking at the rolled-upparchment still sitting on thetable.

*Lyon,France,1790.Fredericklookedupfromtheparchment, at the unwanted

knock at his closed door.Things were getting ugly inFrance, another kind ofrevolution was underway, ofthe kind the Three hadexpressly forbidden theirpeople to get involved in.Only two days ago the CivilConstitution of the Clergywaspassedby theAssembly,despiteKing Louis’ apparentobjections.EvennowCelestewas visiting the king to tryandtalksomesenseintohim.

ItalwayssurprisedFrederick,even after almost fifty-sevenyears, the way Celeste wasable to talk herway into theconfidenceofthoseinpower.He knew it should notsurprisehim,afterallCelestewasbornofnobleblood,andshewasathomewithnobilityof every kind. Especially inherowncountry.

It frustrated him, too, thatCeleste was becoming

involved in the revolutionsweepingFrance,whenitwasshe who created the DomainCouncil to prevent suchinvolvement in worldlyaffairs. But there was noreasoning with her; Francewas her pet project, and shehadtodoherbesttokeeptheforthcoming war she fearedfrom the French borders. IfCelestewas tobelieved therewas nothing to be done,France would be at war

within a few years. It wasnowinevitable.

He rose from the table,glancing one last time at thepileofparchment,andturnedto the door. That alsofrustrated him. He hadstudied the words on theparchmentmany times in thelast two years, ever since hehadclaimed themfromLadyIsobel, and now knew themword-perfect, but still he

wantedtoknowmore.Inthattimehehadscouredallover,visited countless countries touncover anything that wouldhelp him discover theanswersheneeded.Sofarallhe had found was scraps;notes written in obscurelanguages that he could notread.Eventhebesttranslatorsfoundmuchof the languagesdifficult to understand.Whathehadread,though,intriguedhimgreatly,evenifalotofit

was contradictory. Of onething hewas sure, he had tolearn more, to find out thetruthofwherehispeoplehadcome from. He had neverbelievedtheliesspreadbytheBrotherhood, but he wasbeginning to suspect thatJulius, although undeniablyegocentricandderanged,wascloser to the truth thanFrederickliked.

“What is it?” he

demanded, as he flung thedoor open. Honoré, the headservant of Celeste’s house,stood there, his face a maskoffear.“Well,speak!”

“Pardon, monsieur, uncourrieraintroduitlepresentdocumentpourvous,”Honorésaid, and handed Frederick arolled-up parchment, sealedwitharedribbon.Frederick’sFrench was shaky at best,eventhoughhe’dbeenwitha

French woman for over fiftyyears, but he understood afew words. Someone hadbrought this document to thehouse for him. To take himfromhis studies it had betterbeofimportance.

“Merci,” Frederick said,and turned from Honoré,unrolling the parchment. Hestoppedinhistracksandreadthewordswritteninthefinelycrafted script twice. He

swallowed, span on his feet,and turned back to Honoré,who was already walkingaway fromFrederick’s room.“Honoré, has Celestereturned?”

Honoré stopped andlookedback,witha frownofconcentration. “Pardon,monsieur, je ne comprendspas.”

Frederick growled. “Thatis the problem, neither of us

understandthe…”Hepaused.“Wait, I did understand that.Celeste, a retourné?” heasked,suddenlyabletospeakandunderstandfluentFrench.Celeste always said thateventually he would be abletounderstandevery languagehe heard, a peculiar trait thattheir people developed whennear the Second Death.Which meant soon it wouldbetimeto…Frederickshookhishead.No,hedidnotwish

to contemplate what thatmeant. He knew, that wasenough.

“Shehas,sir.Ibelievesheis dining at this moment,”Honorésaid.

“Thankyou.”Forgetting to close the

door, Frederick swept pastHonoré and made his waythrough the house to thedining room.There he found

her sitting at the head of thetable,resplendentinthefinestsilks, her dark red haircontrasting with the lightershades of her dress. Shelooked up from her food,raised an eyebrow atFrederick’shaste,andofferedhimanemptywineglass.

“Mes toujours, a pleasureasever.Whatbringsyouhereinsuchahurry?”

Frederick sat himself at

the table and took the glass,allowing Celeste to pour thered liquid out of the crystaldecanter. He returned hersmile, and sipped beforebeginning.“Ihavereceivedamissive, an invitation fromthe Ancient himself.” Stillhardly able to believe hiseyes, Frederick handed theparchmentover.

Celeste quietly read thescript. Once finished she

carefully placed it on thetableandraisedherpaleeyesto look at Frederick.“Moldavia. A long journey,Frederick, and a treacherousone. But such a summonscannot be ignored.” Shesmiled and reached a handouttohim,whichhetookandheld in his. “Perhaps youshall now have answers tothesequestions?”

“It would seem most

probable. And, of course Ishall go, how can I not?There have been reports ofthe Ancient for many years,but none have beensubstantiated indecades. Justrumour.AndnowWamukotawishestosee…me?Whyme?Whynow?”

“You question too much,mes toujours, I have alwayssaid so. You always want toknowthingswithcertainty,to

be sure and have no doubt.Such yearnings lead to aclosedmind.”

Frederick shook his head.“No, questions should beasked.Always.”

“Perhaps, but someanswers are best leftunknown.”

“Like theSecondDeath?”Frederick said softly,disturbedby thequake inhis

voice. “It is coming soon,Celeste, I know it. Iunderstood Honoré withperfectclarity.”

Celeste took this newswithgrace.SheknewHonoréspoke only French, and sheknewhowdifficult Frederickfound learning their nativetongue.Shesmiledsadly,andplacedahandonhis face. “Iwill miss seeing these eyes,but you know what must be

done.”For a moment neither

spokeanotherword.Frederickswallowed.“We

shall see,” he said, and bentdown to kiss Celeste. Shereturned the kiss withpassion. “I shall return assoon as I am able. Withanswers,”headded.

Celeste raised her glass.“Toanswers,maytheybeall

you wish. And when youreturn,may you be as youngandvibrantaswhenwemet.”

Frederick bowed, thenturned to leave. It was, asCeleste said, a long andtreacherous journey ahead,through countries at war.Always, it seemed, humanswerefightingoversomething.Heshookhishead.Itdidnotmatter. He would make it toMoldavia and meet with the

Ancient, the oldest of theirkind. And he would find away to escape the SecondDeath…somehow.

***PartTwo:21stCentury

Newington Green, England,2002.“Idon’tknow,Jake,”Willemsaid into his phone, as hestepped out of the cafe. Hefound a free table and sat

down,placing thecarrierbagonhis lap andcrackingopenthecanofPepsi.Itwasahotday and he was parched.Downingacanofdrinkwhilerestinghislegssoundedlikeagoodplan. “You say thatbutthere’s something aboutCruise,youknow?”

“Likewhat?He’sanokayactor,Iguess,”returnedJake,the slight Californian lilt ofhis accent still there, despite

twenty years of living inLondon, “but he picks suchcrapmovies,guy.”

“You said you ratedMinority Report,” Willempointed out, lifting the boxoutofthecarrierbag.Anoldman,onacourseforthecafe,stumbledoveraloosepaving-stoneandalmostknockedtheboxoutofWillem’sarm.

“So sorry,” the old mansaid, as Willem fought to

steadyhimwithhisfreehand.“It’s okay, man,” Willem

returned. The man gatheredhimself together, and for amomentheremainedstandingthere, looking at Willemthrough his dark shades.Willem stared back, feelinghis blood go oddly cold.“Yousureyou’reokay?”

“Yes, yes,” the old manmumbled, “sorry, yes, I’mfine now. Just for a moment

there you reminded me of…someone else.”He shook hishead.“Excuseme.”

Willem watched the oldmancontinuehiswayintothecafe, and blinked. He turnedhis attention back to thephone call, and could hearJake on the other end tryingtospeaktohim.“Sorry,dude,some old guy almostcollapsed into me. Anyway,ratingMinorityReport.”

“Right, well I do, butwhat’s that got to do withCruise?Itwasagoodmovie,butCruise…Sorry,Will,butcan’tbeagreeingwithyouonthat score. His wife on theotherhand,she’sababe!”

“What? Nicole Kidman?”Jake’s whistle on the otherend of the phone madeWillem laugh. Even now hecould see his matesubconsciously repositioning

his bits. “You do know theysplitlastyear,right?”

“Oh.” Silence, and then,“really? Proves my point,then. How can you rateCruise when he divorcedKidman? He’s a fruitcake,obviously.”

“Good logic, man,”Willemsaidwithalaugh.

Having just spent sometimeawayfromworktovisit

hisfatherinHackney,Willemwas glad for the light reliefJake brought him. It wasn’toften that he visited hisfather, but now and thenWillemfeltobligatedtovisit,just to check in on the oldgoat. He was still a littleconcerned thathis fatherwascontinuing his decline; firsthe’d turned to drink, whichlasted a few years, andmorerecently he’d found religion.Willemstilldidn’tbuyit,and

it made his visits moresporadic than ever. He justcouldn’t take seeing his dadturning into a pious oldhermit,whospentmostofhistimequotingtheBibleinsteadof asking how Willem’s lifewas going. Feeling a littledown afterwards, Willemstopped en route home totreathimselftoanewphone.

It was the latest in phonedesign, a Nokia 7650; slide-

open, and the first Nokiaphone to feature a camera.Willem didn’t quiteunderstandwhyyou’dneedacamera inyourphoneandhecertainly didn’t see itcatching on, but that didn’tmatter, he had seen it lastmonth in the film MinorityReport and had wanted one.RingingJaketotellhimaboutthe new purchase was whathad initiated the critique onTom Cruise. And now, with

his old Ericsson T66 restingbetweenearand shoulder,hesat outside the cafe playingaroundwithhisnewphone.

“So, when you back,guy?”Jakeasked.

Willem chewed his lip,wondering if they wouldmindhimborrowingasocketinside the cafe so he couldcharge the phone, and said,“couple of hours, probably.Have to meet with Ste, then

pop over to the old folkshome.”

Jake chuckled. “Don’t tellme, more drama with theteenager?”

Willem rolled his eyes atthat, placing the phone backinitsbox.“Wouldn’tmindsomuch if my sister was ateenageralready,atleastthenshe’dhaveareasonforbeingsuchastroppybitch.Ahwell,you know how it is, man,

wouldn’t be my sister andmotheriftheyweren’thavingsome kind of drama. Ofcourse, they’re probablygiving Eon a headache, soswingsandround-a-bouts.”

“Yeah, always a plus.Anyway,guy,I’llletyougo.”

“Right, okay, cool. Seeyou on the flip side, yeah?”Heputthephoneinhisjacketpocket and glanced back atthe cafe. He could ask them

to borrow a plug socket,but… Willem checked hiswatch. Getting to Fulhamwouldtakeawhile,andsincehedidn’tdrive…Hestoodupand turned to leave, thinkingthat maybe it was time hesorted out some drivinglessons. Couldn’t become abusiness executive and notdrive,thatwouldbejust—

He stopped and lookedback at the shop. Just for a

moment he had the distinctfeeling that someone waswatching him, very closely.But no one seemed to bepaying him any undueattention, not even that oldbloke, who was nowimmersed in his newspaper,mugofteaonthetablebeforehim. Willem shrugged. Hehadthingstodo.

*The old man looked up

from his paper once again,and slowly lifted hissunglasses. With eyes sotransparent they showed thebloodbehind,heobservedtheyoung man with carrier bagwalking away from theoutside table, leaving thePepsibehind.

“At last,” Frederick said,“just as the Ancientpromised.”

*

His work for the Threedone,Frederickmadehiswayslowly up Hawthorn Road.Hedidn’tmindAshingtontoomuch,alargelyurbantowninthe North East of England.He’d been sent to worseplaces in the centuries he’dserved as the Three’s specialenvoy, andAshingtonwas…nice. He’d rather be inLondon, keeping an eye onWillemTownsend,buthehadduties that didnot allowhim

the luxury of such excesses.He had spent far too muchtimeinLondoninthelastfewmonths, anyway, ever sincehe’d first spotted Willemoutside that cafe, and LadyIsobelwasbeginningtogetalittle curious. If he continuedit would only be amatter oftime before Celeste foundout, and he wasn’t ready toshareyet.

Heneededtobeabsolutely

sure first. If what the Booksaid was true, then a fewmoreyearshadtopassbeforehe could make his move,enough time for him to becertain of the ka he’d sensedwhen he stumbled intoWillem.Itwashim,Frederickwas so sure, but notabsolutely.Afewotherthingsneededclarityfirst.

That was why he nowwalked up Hawthorn Road,

following the teen beforehim.Acenturyhadpassedbyso quickly, and now, onceagain,itwastime.

He’d been followingRobinTurner for a few daysnow, delving into thehuman’smind.Suchafragilething,even theweakestmindtrawler would have had nodifficulty reading the surfacethoughts of Robin. Frederickhad learned what he needed,

and knew that after workRobin always popped by hismother’s before going on tohis girlfriend’s flat. And heknew that the path he tookwasalwaysthesame.

Oncue,Robin turned intoHirst Park, and Frederickquickened his pace. Robinreminded him of so manyothers he’d known over theyears. Dead on six feet tall,thin but not slim, with dark

hair and deep brown eyes.Just like with all the others,Robin had the kind of eyesthatsuckedapersonrightin.

How could Frederickresist?Especiallynow.

He turned into Hirst Parkhimself,andwassurprised toseeRobin standing there, hisbodytense,fistsclenched.AsFrederick had suspected,Robin knew he was beingfollowed. Which is what

Frederick liked; he neverpicked the weak ones. Therewasnofuninthatatall.

“What the fuck, man!What are you, some kind ofnonce?”

Frederick grinned, andshookhishead.“No,childrenhave no interest for me.Younger than nineteenand…”

“You’re sick!” Robin

stepped forward. “You’vepicked the wrong fuckingmantostalk.”

“No, you’re perfect.”Without warning, and fasterthanRobincouldtakeanotherstep, Frederick was right inRobin’s face, one handclamped around his throat.“To be nineteen again,”Frederick whispered, andforced his mouth overRobin’s.

*Central London, England,2003.“Bro, that was just…wow!”Ste looked up at the glass-faced tower, unable to wipethe smile off his face. Onlyseconds ago both he and hismate were at the top of theCanary Wharf Tower andnow theywere both standingin the square below,surrounded by a cheering

crowd who stood behindbarrierssomedistanceaway.

“Express elevator to hell,right?”

“God yeah.” Ste laughed,andtookadeepbreath.“Shit.BASE jumping is just…Shityeah! Can’t get much morecrazythanthat!”

“Thatachallenge?”“Fuckyeah!”Stesaidand

held his hand out, which his

mate grasped with equalfervour, their thumbs linking.That’s what Ste loved aboutRobin, always throwing outthe next challenge, which heknew Ste would have toaccept. Some called him anadrenalin junkie, and maybetheywereright.FactwasStedidn’twant towaste his life;he had to live on the edge.He’d almost died in a caraccident when he was a kid,and since then it seemed

foolish to waste his secondchance.

“Dude, we shouldprobably clear up theparachutes,” Robin said.“Before our adoring fanswant our autographs.” Henoddedatthecrowds.

Ste looked over andlaughed. “Yeah, extremesports, extreme fans. Whichremindsme,thosetwinsfromlast night…erm, Karen and

Anne? Did you get theirnumbers?”

“Sorry, mate, forgot,”Robinsaid,ashestartedworkongatheringtheparachuteoffthe ground. “You know me,fuck ’em and leave ’em. Notimeforactionreplays.”

“Not always true,” Stesaidwithawink.

Robinlaughedat this,andplayfully punched Ste’s

shoulder. “But I’ve neverfuckedyou.”

“Everythingbut,though.”“Too extreme for you?”

Robinasked, thatoldwickedglint in his brown eyes, oneeyebrowraised.

“Youwish.”“So,tonightthen,yeah?”Ste shook his head,

laughing.“Yeah,you’reon.”

*Ste swung his legs over,

andwithapainfulstinginhisgroin he managed to sit onthe edge of the roof next toRobin, who smiled at him,then lookedout from the topof Michael Stewart House.From their vantage point ontherooftheycouldseeacrossFulhamandoutpastCharingCrossHospital.Itwasaclearnight, offering a good view,

butitwaschilly.Fortunately,duetotheirveryownversionofextremeindoorsports,andthe subsequent climbingontotheroof,Stedidn’tfeelmuchof that chill. His musclesweresore,hisbodywarm,hewasalsoinsomepain.But itwasanicepain.

“It’llprobablygosepticbythemorning,”hesaid.

Robin shrugged. “Notnecessarily.Depends on how

wellyouheal.”“Well enough,” Ste said,

gently pulling the crotch ofhis jeans away fromhis nowvery sensitivegenitals. “Still,that was… Where did youlearnthat?”

“Jassy, a small place inMoldavia.”

“Right.You’vetravelledalot,” Ste said, havingforgotten the amount of

places Robin had mentionedin a first-hand-experiencekind of way. They’d onlyknown each about fourmonths, met in a pub offOxford Street. Ste noticedsomething in Robin he’dfound very familiar, anddecided to introduce himself.Soon found out they hadmuchincommon,includingalove for extreme sports. Ofcourse,backinNovemberStehad no idea that Robin liked

to take those extreme sportsinto the bedroom. But hey,Ste was up for tryinganything once, and that firstnightwhenRobinhadappliedpressurethereStehadalmostfallentohisknees.Ithadhurtatfirst,butthentheadrenalinkicked in, the endorphinswere released, and he foundhimself incredibly turned onbythepain.

Now here they were. Ste

wouldnevercallhimselfgay,nor Robin come to that, butthey had developed a ratherinteresting friendship, onewith very few boundaries. Itwasn’t about sex, none of itwas;itwasabouttherush,thehightheybothgot.Beitwitheach other or with womeninvolved, it didn’t muchmatter. What mattered wastheendresult;thehigh!

“What if I told you that

you’restillmissingoutonthebiggest high of them all?”Robin asked, almost as if hehadreadSte’smind.

“Then I’d say let’s do it,man!”

Robin nodded his headslowly. “Right, okay, but Ineed to show you somethingfirst.”

“What?”Robin looked at Ste and

winked. Then, withoutpreamble, he flung himselfofftheroof.

For a second, unable tobelieve his eyes, Stecontinued to look in the spotRobin had occupied, then helowered his head, his heartbeatingfasterthanithadeverbeaten before, and sawsomething that he justcouldn’taccept.

Several stories below, on

the grass, Robin wasclamberingtohisfeet.Atfirsthe seemed to have littlebalance, but Ste figured thatmighthavehad something todowith thewayRobin’s leftleg was completely out ofjoint. He shook his head,wonderingat thewayhewasviewing this. It was abstract,unreal.Yet…

Robinpoppedhislegbackinto place and waved up at

Ste. “Come down!” heshouted.

Ste swallowed. BASEjumpingwasonething,buttodo it without a parachute…He was an adrenalin junkie,sure, but not insane. “I’mtaking the stairs,” hemumbled,histhroatsuddenlydry.

*Inthetimeittookforhim

to walk to the ground floor,two things changed in Ste.One, his legs had decided towork properly again, thealternate stiffness (from theextreme exertion) andshakiness (from the shock ofseeing one’s best matecommit a failed suicide) hadsubsided. Two, hismind hadsettled on anger. The shock,which probably hadn’t gonetotally, had crystallised intoanger.

He found Robin stilloutside, now sitting on thebar that ran the lengthof thewallat theedgeof thegrass.He had his back to Ste,looking across at the FulhamPoolson theopposite sideofLillieRoad.

“What the fuck was that,man?”Stewantedtoknow.

StillRobindidn’tturn.Steslowed his walk. Somethingwas different about Robin,

the way he sat. There wasnew strength to him, not tosay that Robin had everprovenweak,buthesatlikeadifferent man. The kind ofman you didn’twant to fuckwith.

“Listen, how did you dothat?”Ste stoppeda few feetaway.

“Come sit with me, andI’lltellyou.”

Even Robin’s voicesounded different. Hesounded like an older man,with an accentStehadneverheardbefore.Hewouldhavesaid German, but there wassomethingnotrightaboutthatguess.Hetookadeepbreath.He couldn’t back away now,he had to know how Robinhadmanagedtojumpoffthatblock of flats and survived.Sohedidashewas told.Heclimbedthewallandsatnext

to Robin. For a momentneither spoke, they bothlookedouttotheemptyroad.Fortunate that it was halfthree in the morning, nospectators towitnessRobin’smiracleBASEjump.

Robin turned his faceslightly, and the person Stesaw looking at him was notRobin. It had nothing to dowith the cuts on his face, itwasmoretodowiththeway

the face sat. The featuresseemed harder somehow,more serious, no trace of asmile at all. Ste didn’t knowwhattothink,buthewassurehe was not looking at thenineteen-year-old Northernlad he’d known for fourmonths.

“Do you still want thebiggesthighever?”

Again Ste swallowed. Hereallydidwantit.It’swhathe

livedfor.Allthehoursheputinatworkatthecoffeeshop,he hadn’t become amanagerattwenty-twojustbecausehelovedhisjob.Willpaidhimagoodwage,morethanenoughto pay for his extreme lifestyle. And he’d done it all,every extreme sport that hadbeen invented he’d given ago, foundnewways topush,to make the rush even moreintoxicating.NowRobinwasoffering him something else

entirely…“Whatisit?”“My blood, Stephen. It’s

special, keeps me alive.Forever.” At this Robinsmiled,butitwasn’tthewide“here comes the rush” smilehe usually had. This wasmore ironic. “That’s how Isurvived.”

“Andyou…what?Wanttogivemeyourblood?”Atthis

Stelaughed.“Comeon,dude,this is the twenty-firstcentury, I’m not taking yourblood.Idon’tknowwhatyoumighthave.”

Robin raised an eyebrow,andforthefirsttime,withoutthe shadow of the browcovering it, Ste saw thatRobin’s right eye wasextremelybloodshot.Well,hehad fallen from a greatheight, somethingwasbound

to be damaged. “If I hadanything,don’tyouthinkyouwould have caught it bynow?”

“Goodpoint.Butstill…”“Then perhaps you’d like

tosamplethegoods?”Ste wasn’t too sure about

that, but before he coulddecide Robin moved. Fast.Faster than it took thembothto jump fromCanaryWharf.

Ste’s eyes went wide asRobinforcedhismouthopen.Robin’s wrist was a gash ofblood, torn open by anincredibly long thumbnail.No, not a nail, it was if atalon made of bone hadsprouted from the tip ofRobin’s thumb! Ste barelyhad time to take any of thisin, before Robin’s bloodpoureddownhisthroat.

Robin whipped his arm

away and Ste fell back ontothe grass. He lay there for awhile, feeling his heart beatso fast, the blood whizzingaround his body, adrenalinkicking in.He jumped to hisfeet in one swift movement,eyesdartingabout.Heespiedthe play house in the parkoutside thePools, andbeforeheknewithewasstandingontop of it, balancing perfectlyonthetinyroof.

“Wow. This is the shit!”he said, his voice soundingloud in his ears. Robin leaptthefenceandwalkedthroughthepark.

“Well?”“This is just…” Balance

suddenly gone, Ste tumbledandlandedonhisarsebesidethe play house. Robin waslooking down at him; heoffereda smileandhishand.For a brief second Ste was

looking down at himself,looking up at Robin, eyesglassed over. Then hechanged. It was not Ste hewas looking at but an oldman, incredibly old,wizenedskin like bronze. He sniffed.Somethingwasburning…

“Come back to me,Stephen,”avoicesaid.

Thesmellfaded,andonceagain he was looking up atRobin, who effortlessly

pulledhimtohisfeet.“Whatwasthat?Iwas…”

“In one of my memories.A long, long time ago…inMoldavia.”

“Your memories?” Steshook his head, trying to getthat image out of his head.“Who was that man? HowwasIinyour…”

“His name wasWamukota, the oldest of my

people. And it’s the blood,Stephen, it’s always theblood. Our life source.”Robin offered a smile. “Theeffect becomes morepronounced each time, thebuzzbetter, andevery timeadifferent memory.” A beat.“Wantmore?”

“God yes!” Ste repliedwithoutcompunction.

Robin nodded, thebemused expression slipping

offhisfacelikeoil.“Thenwetrade.Iwillgiveyouasmuchasyoulike,butIneedyoutodo something important forme.”

Ste shrugged. “Hey, Rob,there’salwaysaprice,right?”

“Quite so.” Robin took astep back, and for amomentthe light from the lampoutside the park flashed onhisfaceandStesawthetruth.Robin’s right eye was not

bloodshot, itwas transparent,and he could see the bloodflowing behind it. But theleft, that was brown still…Robin blinked and reachedfor his eye. “Ah yes, I lostone of my contacts when Ilanded. Not too worry.” Heremovedthelensfromhislefteye, and looked directly atSte. With matchingtransparent eyes. “Do wehave a deal then? My bloodforyourhelp…?”

Reserved.