Moonheart (52 page)

"You wouldn't fit into my shoes, Tucker."

Tucker smiled, for the first time in hours, and put his arm around her waist to draw her close.

"I thought we were supposed to be patrolling," Maggie said, snuggling against him.

"We are, we are. This is all part of the job."

"Oh, really? Maybe I should've been a cop."

"What? And miss out on the high drama of playing Perry Mason?"

A look of mock horror passed over her face and she patted her stomach.

"Do you think I'm putting on weight?" she demanded.

Tucker shook his head. "Your weight's in all the right places."

"Betcha can't wait till twelve," she said with a grin.

"You just won yourself a bet."

Alone for the first time in hours, Jamie paced the length of his study, pausing from time to time to glare at the blank viewscreen of his computer. There was a solution to their problem in it. He knew it. Just as Tom's program had been hidden away in it for so many years. What else had Tom entered into its memory banks? And what was the code he needed to call it up? It was going to be something simple. Something obvious. So obvious that he probably wouldn't know it even if he tripped over it. Damn Tom, anyway, for being so obtuse. It wasn't right to play around with people's lives like this.

Turning from the desk, Jamie settled in one of the easy chairs in front of the hearth. He took out his pipe and filled it, searched for a match on the table beside him. His manuscript for the
International Wildlife
article was still sitting there, Sara's blue pencil on top of it. Setting aside his unlit pipe, Jamie stared into the cold hearth.

Sara, he thought, his chest tightening. He could sense an answering tension in the walls of the House. Through all that had been happening, her disappearance had been in the forefront of his mind— a sharp ache for which there was no remedy. Was this the Otherworld that Tom had sent her to? Was she still safe with his apprentice, or had this Mal'ek'a thing captured her? Maybe she was just beyond the edges of the field that encircled the House, being held by the creatures. Held? Lord, if they had her, she wasn't even alive.

The realization brought a cold chill. Cursing Tom Hengwr again, he rose and went to his desk. He switched on Memoria, hand poised above the terminal. Where did he start? A random search? Try for a key word? A phrase? He knew they were supposed to be conserving energy in case they were in for a long stay, but he didn't really care. They had to do something about their position
now.
There might not be a later.

Sighing, he had Memoria call up the Weirdin bone file. One by one he left each bone on the screen, staring at it with his mind open, trying for an instinctual understanding, some leap of intuition that would help him where logic had failed.

Sally wanted to accompany Blue on his turn of guard duty and, thinking of the scouting expedition he had planned for himself in the morning, he made no protest. He planned to take his trail bike— the big chopper wouldn't be worth a damn in this kind of terrain. But even with the bike and his Weatherby, he knew he was asking for trouble. Still, they couldn't just sit around the House, waiting for a solution to present itself to them. They had to get out of here. Back to Ottawa.

He didn't have much faith in Thomas Hengwr being of much help to them— even if he did come round. Hengwr was the one who'd gotten them into this screwy mess in the first place. And there was another thing. Echoing the worry that was running through Jamie's head, he too had the feeling that Sara might be out there somewhere— maybe stumbling through the bush, lost, waiting for them to find her. The wolfmen mightn't have a clue what the roar of a trail bike was, but she'd know. If she was out there, near enough and able to move, she'd come to him.

"Heavy stuff," Sally said. "What's going to happen to us, Blue?"

Blue sighed. "We're going to kick ass and get out of this mess, that's what's going to happen. No way we're going to roll over and die just to please those things outside."

"It's not even just them," Sally said. "Those men— the one called Gannon and the other two. They give me the creeps."

"They are creeps," Blue said. "I'm not even all that sure about Tucker. They're all in the same headspace— Tucker, Gannon, the others."

"I don't think you can put the Inspector with those other men. He may be straight, but I think he's pretty upfront."

Blue never got a chance to reply. They had just turned the corner of the hall that led from the east wing to the south side that would have faced Central Park if they were still in Ottawa. A crash of breaking glass came from the third room on the right. Working the bolt of the Weatherby as he ran, Blue burst into the room, Sally hard on his heels. He lifted the rifle as she panned the flashlight across the window. There was a stone on the floor, jagged shards of glass scattered across the carpet. Something came through a hole in the window— a paw, maybe a hand— and Blue's finger tightened on the trigger. Before he could fire, blue light flared and whatever had been trying to get in was gone.

Sally took a step forward.

"Hold it!" Blue said. He kept the rifle leveled at the window, his gaze never wavering from it. They both watched, with a mixture of astonishment and fear, as the window began to repair itself.

"Blue...?"

"That didn't look like any monster's paw," he said. "That looked like a hand."

"The window, Blue."

"Yeah. I know."

Whatever it was about the House that protected them was still operating. Shaking his head, Blue lowered the rifle. The House had always been a little strange, but this was freaky.

"I gotta go out and have a look," he said. "Give me the flashlight, babe."

She shook her head. "I... I'm going with you."

"Don't be crazy," he began, then paused at the look of determination on her face.

She was scared. Shit,
he
was scared. But she wasn't going to back off. That was part of what had drawn him to her in the first place. She didn't seem like she'd back off from anything. She might've been a little weirded out when all of this started— hell, who hadn't been?— but she was pulling like a trouper now.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

They made their way to the nearest outside door, eased it open and stepped out onto the porch. Sally held the flashlight at her side, the light turned off. For long moments they stood there, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the starlight, listening, watching. When Blue was satisfied that there was nothing out there, at least nothing close, he led off towards the window. When they reached it, Blue studied their surroundings again, receptive to the slightest pinprick warning of danger. But the night was still. The only scent in the air was that of wildflowers and the tall grass. The only sound was that of the wind and their own quick breathing.

"Take a look around the window," Blue said. He kept his back to the House, gaze darting left and right, and out to the open expanse of field.

"What am I looking for?"

"For some sign of whatever was trying to break in. A footprint. Whatever."

"There's nothing," she said after a moment. "Have we got the right window?"

"What's the ground like?"

"Soft."

So it would've held a print. Whatever had tried to get in had to have left some sign.

"You keep watch for a sec," he said.

He passed her the rifle and, using the flashlight, hunkered down to have a look. Sally was right. There was nothing there. The ground lay undisturbed. So what the hell had been trying to get through the window before the House fried it?

"Let's check a couple more," he said.

They investigated the ground under three more windows, then double-checked them in their return to the door. The story was the same under each one— nothing had left a track. Not even a scuff. Blue had set his own weight in the dirt and left a bootprint. Sally, weighing in at a hundred and two pounds, had tried as well with the same results.

"Let's go back inside," she said suddenly. "I'm starting to feel creepy— like we're being watched."

"We probably are," Blue said, but he motioned for her to go on ahead of him.

He stared off into the darkness for a long time, lips pursed as he thought, before following her inside. "What do you think it was?" he asked as he locked the door once more.

Sally shook her head. "I haven't a clue. With everything so mixed up, it could've been anything. A ghost?"

"You know what I think? I think it was someone from our world, trying to get in."

"What?"

"It makes sense," he said, "in a weird sort of way. And everything's so mixed up that anything's possible. What if the House is in two worlds at the same time? If it's just the inside of the House that goes world-hopping? Remember the attack this morning? When we went outside, there was nothing on the doors or the walls. Not a scratch. But this afternoon, when we found ourselves here... Well, you saw the sides of the House when the wolfmen attacked. The wood's all clawed to ratshit. The place is a mess. The way it
should
have looked this morning."

Sally nodded. "I think you're right. But what does that mean? And how could there be two Houses as strange as this one is?"

"I don't know. Jamie's grandfather had this one built. Maybe there's something in old Anthony Tamson's journals that can tell us. Jamie'd know where to look."

"But wouldn't he already have thought of that by now? If he knew?"

"Not necessarily. All the Tamsons are heavy-duty writers. They pump out reams of the stuff, from Jamie's grandfather all the way down to Sara. Who'd have time to go through it all?"

"Well, let's go ask him."

Blue shook his head. "After we've finished our patrol."

"Maybe there'll be something in those journals that will tell us how to get back."

"You got it," Blue said.

But if there wasn't, that made it even more imperative for him to scout around tomorrow. Because if one structure could straddle two worlds, there might be others. And if he found another one, there was a chance that he might find someone in it who could give them a hand. It'd be dangerous, but he wouldn't walk into anything blind.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder, adjusting the strap so that it hung comfortably, ready at hand. The Weatherby could be awfully persuasive, if push came to shove.

Traupman dozed in a chair in Gramarye's Clover, wakening from time to time to have a look at the patient. Tom's breathing had evened out as the night progressed and while his skin was still pale, it was not so transparent. He wondered what it was that could have affected Tom in such a way— what sort of a being this Mal'ek'a creature was.

Traupman found this entire situation extremely disturbing. Here he was, he thought, closing his eyes again, a writer of macabre fiction, a pursuer of "forbidden lore" for all these years, but never a believer. There had always been a wide streak of cynicism running through him— just enough to keep the papers he'd had published free of the baseless enthusiasm that invalidated so much paranormal research. He had only let himself go in his fiction. But he'd never believed in any of it. Not for a moment. It had just come out of the dark side of his imagination. It was a healthy catharsis to relieve his own fears of dying as the years took their toll on him. For he was getting old now. Too old for this. Too old to have fiction become reality.

A footstep in the doorway brought him out of his reverie. He saw Phillip Gannon leaning against the doorjamb.

"How's the patient, Dr. Traupman?"

"Still unconscious. But he's resting easier."

"Any chance we can pry a few words from him tomorrow?"

"I'm hoping."

Gannon nodded. "Just a little guy, isn't he? A funny-looking little guy. If you passed him on the street, you'd never think he could cause such a fuss. Well, you take care of yourself, Dr. Traupman. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."

The words were pleasantly spoken, but there was a dead look in Gannon's eyes. This was a dangerous man, Traupman realized. He stared at the empty doorway for a long time after Gannon was gone. A very dangerous man, he amended. He hoped John had some way of dealing with him and his companions, when and if they got out of their present predicament.

Mal'ek'a waited in a place of darkness.

It gave no thought to the passing of time. Its patience would be rewarded. It had its tragg'a scouring the worlds, past and present, for the small hornless one who kept the bard's power-object from it. They would find her. And when they did, they would bring Mal'ek'a the ring. What they did with her afterwards was of no concern to it. All it needed was the ring to crack open Tamson House that it might take its rightful prey— the druid.

The only other method of gaining entrance to that cursed House had failed dismally. Mal'ek'a thought of reaching for another mind in the House, but the creatures that remained within were stronger and the House had strengthened its protection.

No. There was time enough. There was forever. It need only be patient. It had already waited through a thousand years of darkness to free itself. It had waited to gather strength enough to fashion itself a body, to bend the wills of the devil-bear's children to its own purposes. It could wait longer. It was mortals who lived to die. Beings such as itself and the druid would go on forever. Until they were slain.

Mal'ek'a's power flickered in its eyes as it savored the thought of its enemy's death. There would be no Summer Country for him. He was to know the same wintry void that lurked in Mal'ek'a's own heart.

"You both saw this?" Jamie asked.

As he looked from one to the other, Sally nodded.

"And it was a hand? A human hand... not a paw?"

"It happened pretty fast," Blue said. "But I'm sure it was a hand. When we checked around outside, we couldn't find anything. I tell you it fits."

"I don't know," Jamie said. He rubbed his eyes, weary from the hours he'd spent hunched over Memoria's terminal and viewscreen. "I suppose it could be possible," he conceded.