Dreams of Shreds and Tatters Part 23

She saw a chubby little girl in pigtails, clutching a ragdoll cat to her chest. A teenager in a school uniform, a veil of blonde hair trailing over her face. Those she knew, but others she had never seen before. A middle-aged woman, her face creased with smiling lines as well as sad ones; a wedding band gleamed on one inkstained finger.

It's a trick, a distraction. The music played in the distance and she had to keep running, but some of the faces were too fantastic to ignore. She saw herself robed in white linen, her hair draping her shoulders in tiny beaded plaits. Liz raised her hand to Seker's scarab brooch, and her reflection touched an identical jewel.

Opposite the white figure was a dark one. Older, maybe- certainly colder. Her face was grim and steady, no trace of shyness or fear. Black leather armor enclosed her, hard and slick as chitin. All her softness hidden away.

Here at last Liz halted. This. This was who she needed to be. She met her reflection's cool, wary eyes, raised her hand to the gla.s.s and touched her twin's fingertips.

"How do I become you?" she whispered. The reflection didn't answer, but the gla.s.s rippled. Black bled like ink from the mirror, enveloping her fingers and spilling down her arm.

Liz made a soft wondering sound as darkness washed over her, gaining substance as it flowed. Armor weighed her limbs, cinched her waist and flattened her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Boots hugged her aching feet, fitting snug around her calves. Only the mantle remained the same, the scarab glittering on her shoulder. Her reflection was only a reflection again, but she remembered those unflinching eyes.

My eyes.

She turned away from the mirror and her breath caught. Silence. The music had stopped. She ran again.

THE LIGHT OF a thousand candles lit the ballroom, a thousand stars reflected in the green amber vault of the ceiling. Blake stared at the wide sea-green dome, searching for any hint of the sky beyond. All he found was the mirrored image of the room below, distorted as if through deep water, a chaos of color and music.

Dancers moved across the polished floor, dressed for an elaborate masquerade. Hooved figures and horned, winged and tailed. s.h.a.ggy pelts and sleek, glittering scales. They moved in threes and fours, following the rhythm of an odd, syncopated waltz. Many had asked Blake to join them, but even watching the steps dizzied him.

He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, but that only made the dizziness worse. He felt drunk, though he hadn't touched anything he'd been offered. The air was heady with wine and beeswax and perfume. Colors blurred across his vision. Crystal chandeliers and jeweled costumes threw back shards of fire, and the faces of the dancers swam and slipped whenever he tried to study them.

On the far side of the room, beyond the dancers, stood the throne dais, enclosed in black velvet draperies. The curtains wouldn't be drawn until the King arrived.

He wasn't sure how long he'd stood here, watching the dancers. He couldn't judge the pa.s.sage of time at all since he'd woken in the amber room. He and Alain had spent hours there, or days; the sheets stank of s.e.x and sweat and honey by the time silent attendants had arrived to see them bathed and clothed. The ballroom had windows, the first he'd seen anywhere in the palace, but the thick stained gla.s.s panes offered no glimpse of the world outside.

Maybe there was no world beyond, only the abyss.

Dancers swung past him, their laughter carrying above the music. A slender creature with grey-green skin turned his way, its tentacled face framed by a tall upturned collar. One tentacle rose, swaying as if in greeting. Blake nodded in response and the dancer's partner-naked save for a crown of leaves-giggled.

He turned away from the spectacle, leaning his head against the cold gla.s.s of a window. He almost missed the endless black depths of his nightmares; he had trusted those.

An unexpected touch fell feather-light and teasing across the back of his neck. Blake spun, hands clenching as a surge of angry panic scalded him. Only Alain, slim and sleek in plum-dark brocade. His hair was dyed to match, woven through with ivy.

Was it, an ugly little voice whispered-was it only Alain? Everything was the same, down to the pattern of his calluses and the scar on his navel from an old piercing. But that cool little smile, the laughter in his dark eyes... If this wasn't Alain, who was the stranger wearing his lover's face?

Doubt couldn't stop the desire that tightened Blake's skin as Alain pressed him against the wall for a kiss. The heat left him breathless and reeling, and the questioning voice was lost beneath the sharp pulse of want.

"Soon," Alain whispered as Blake's hands tightened in his hair. "It's almost over." He trailed his fingers down Blake's chest, the sharpness of his nails a m.u.f.fled promise. "Are you nervous?"

"Yes."

Alain's mouth twisted in sympathy, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Don't worry. Soon everything will be as it should be." Another kiss silenced Blake's questions, left him braced against the wall for support.

A woman all in white cut through the crowd, the dancers peeling away from her like skin from a blade. A cowl and blindfold hid the upper half of her face. Her chin and throat were nearly as pale as the cloth, rinsed with blue ultramarine tones. He felt her regard despite her blinded eyes, but when she spoke it was to Alain.

"It's time."

The music died as if at her cue, leaving the dancers faltering through their last steps. The candles dimmed, and golden flames cooled to violet. The rattle of chains carried through the wide room, and the curtains surrounding the dais parted. A murmur swept the crowd, nearly lost beneath the heavy rustle of velvet.

The King sat in a twisted throne, his face lost in the shadows of his gilt-edged cowl. His robes were the color of old ivory, heavy with golden thread. Blake could see nothing of the man beneath, save for one long, pale hand on the armrest of the black chair. Ghastly gargoyle creatures crouched before the throne, skeletal things wrought of leather and bone. Avian and insectile, neither and both. They knelt motionless, except for the rattle of their barbed tails. The crowd knelt as one with the sound of a wave. Blake would have fallen, too, but Alain held him up.

The pale hand rose, beckoning. The guards stepped aside, creaking as they moved. Blake's pulse closed his throat, deafened him with its roar. Alain led him forward, one hand on the small of his back.

The King's presence grew heavier as they crossed the room, pressing down on Blake's shoulders. By the time he reached the foot of the steps, he couldn't bear it. His legs buckled and he fell, bruising his knees on stone. Alain bowed deeply, and the woman in white curtsied amid a puddle of skirts.

That hand lifted again, and the woman rose and climbed the steps. She knelt beside the throne, facing the audience, and the King grasped her shoulder. She shuddered. In the cold purple light her lips looked blue and drowned.

"Welcome, Chosen." That voice was never meant to come from her slender throat. It echoed through the room, through Blake's skull.

He stood, though his legs shook, fighting the urge to look for a face beneath the hood. The hand on the woman's shoulder was grey, desiccated.

"You have come to complete the oath."

It wasn't a question, but he nodded all the same. His throat was dry, his tongue dead in his mouth.

You don't have to say anything. He'll know.

Who had said that to him? Someone far away, in a life he'd forgotten. His stomach cramped, and if he'd eaten anything today he would have vomited it all over the shining steps. Sweat slicked his palms, p.r.i.c.kled his scalp. Alain squeezed his arm, rea.s.surance or a warning.

I don't like the storm.

Who had said that?

"Come, then," the King said through the woman's mouth. "Receive the sign."

The King unwound himself from the th.o.r.n.y embrace of his chair and stood. He beckoned, and Blake went, shaking so hard he could scarcely walk. The smell of bone and roses washed over him, crawling into his mouth and nose. His heart raced as though it meant to escape the prison of his ribs.

The King raised his long gaunt hands and threw back his hood. From the darkness where his face should be, light unfolded.

The world slipped.

Blake wept, enfolded in an angel's flaming wings. His blood boiled, searing through every vein, burning away imperfections.

He understood now what Rainer had meant. Words meant nothing here, only intent. This oath was unspeakable, unspoken. He had only to give himself entirely to the King and be reborn.

Had Rainer done this, too? He remembered Rainer now, Vancouver, all the things the abyss had tried to wash away.

He swore a shadow of this oath. The voice rang through him. Painful, but he had already pa.s.sed through pain into something else. He was so loyal, so eager, but he didn't truly understand. You are the only mortal to take the oath in my presence in... spans and spans of time, as you mayfly creatures measure it. You have the chance to be so much more.

The sign burned behind his eyes, the glowing sigil Rainer had shown him. It surged inside him like a choirsong, the cacophony of a thousand fractured voices. For an instant he understood it-a name, a song not meant to be heard by human ears, let alone spoken. For a fraction of a heartbeat he saw past the angel's devouring light to the darkness beyond. The King, the angel, the shining brilliance was a bright spark against a vast shadow, an anglerfish lure for the timeless presence brooding in the depths of the abyss.

Complete the oath.

He balanced on a knife edge between fear and wonder when the sound of his name shattered the vision. Blake staggered, sagging in the King's skeletal embrace. His hand closed on the King's sleeve and rotten cloth disintegrated at his touch, revealing withered grey flesh beneath.

"Blake!"

The crash of a door slamming shut echoed through the room, followed by a roar of sound.

"Stop her," Alain shouted.

Blake twisted to see the cause of the commotion, falling to his knees as the King released him. A woman strode across the room and the crowd drew back to let her pa.s.s, pressing close in her wake to gawk. Despite Alain's command, no one laid a hand on her as she approached the dais. She wore no mask, only black armor and a white mantle; her boots echoed on the tiles. She lifted her face toward the throne, and Blake's jaw slackened as he recognized her.

"Liz?"

He didn't know how he could be surprised after everything he'd seen and felt and dreamt in this place, but still he gaped.

Her eyes widened as she took in the scene on the dais, but her gaze fixed firm on him. "It's me. I've come to take you home."

"He is home," Alain said, stepping in front of her.

Liz turned, and her voice was cold and harsh. "Who are you?"

Blake tried to step down, but the King's robes clung to him like cobwebs. "You've met Alain-"

She made a sharp gesture with her right hand, leaving a tracer of silver light in its wake. "Alain is dead. I went to his funeral. This isn't him."

Blake opened his mouth to deny it, but his teeth snapped shut on the words.

Alain looked up at the King, and the frown twisting his face wasn't one Blake knew. "Will you permit this?"

The King's narrow shoulders. .h.i.tched, but it was the blindfolded woman who voiced his rumbling chuckle. "It amuses me. Deal with her as you see fit."

Blake shook off the clinging robes and descended the steps. Liz met him at the bottom. Her hair was tangled, her pale face flushed. A blood-soaked bandage wrapped her left hand. Her hazel eyes were wide, lashes spiky as if she'd been crying. He started to reach for her, but jerked his hand back again.

"Is it really you?"

She sighed, and her eyes flickered as if they wanted to roll. "It's really me."

His fists clenched. "You say Alain isn't real. How can I trust you?"

"Because I've fought my way here through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered. Because I brought this." She held up her right hand and he saw his ring, the ring she'd given him, shining loose around her thumb. "And because I'm getting you out of here whether you trust me or not."

Her voice cracked on the last word, a hitch of breath full of worry and impatient determination. The sound caught in his chest like a hook and pulled him forward. He threw his arms around her and the unfamiliar bulk of armor, tucking her head under his chin. She smelled of blood and sweat and fear and the fading sweetness of vanilla shampoo.

"I missed you," he murmured against her hair.

She shook; he thought she was crying until he heard her laugh. "You could have asked me to visit. You didn't have to nearly get yourself killed."

"This is very sweet," Alain said. "But now isn't the time."

Blake turned, and once again doubt paralyzed him. "Who are you?"

Alain's face crumpled, a miserable expression that twisted in Blake's gut like a knife. Then he laughed, and the pain fell away like a mask.

"This game is boring me. Your friend is right. Alain is dead and buried. I'm all you have left of him. But I'll keep wearing his face if you ask me nicely. We can still have fun together."

Blake recoiled, his stomach churning. "Who are you?"

The false Alain stepped closer. "I'm your lover now, aren't I? And more. I've seen all the dark ugly things inside you, more than anyone else ever has." One sharp-nailed hand reached up to stroke Blake's cheek.

He moved without thinking. It wasn't until Alain sprawled on the floor in front of him and the dull warmth of pain spread through his knuckles that Blake realized what he'd done. The crack of flesh against flesh hung in the air. Alain-Alain's face- stared up at him, dark eyes wide with shock, blood trickling from a split lip. Blake's hand ached, and the taste of sour metal filled his mouth. His cheeks burned.

Was this what it felt like? This rush?

His knees gave way and he doubled over retching. His stomach was empty, but it heaved all the same, strings of spit and bile dripping onto the floor.

Laughter washed over him, cold and mocking. He knew that laugh, and it wasn't Alain's. He retched harder.

Hands closed on his coat, hauling him up. "You can be a predator, darling, or you can be prey. It's a pity you seem disposed to the latter. Perhaps the King can cure you of that. If not, well... better sport for the rest of us."

Liz grabbed Alain's arm and tried to pull him away. Instead he backhanded her with casual viciousness and sent her sprawling across the tiles.

"I'm glad you're here, after all," he said. "You can keep my friends company. This was a boring party anyway." He whistled sharply, and an answering howl rose from the dancers.

"Now," he said to Blake. "Let's finish what you started."

Blake struggled, but the false Alain was too strong, carrying him up the stairs as if he were a child. Something moved inside him, something more than his own helpless panic: a coil of darkness, some lingering taint of the abyss. Black and cold and alien, but it gave him strength.

He smashed his skull into Alain's face and kicked. Their legs tangled and both of them spilled down the stairs. Blake's head bounced off stone and the world exploded into white starbursts. He landed blind and dizzy. Alain fell across him, pinning him to the floor. All Blake could do was lie limp and pray he didn't fall to pieces.

Alain's voice whispered in his ear. "Aren't you tired of being a victim? Anyone's meat, to use or save or throw away. This place could make you so much more, if you'd only let it."

Blood roared in Blake's ears, leaked down his face. Darkness sang to him and he wanted so badly to listen.

The door crashed open again, and a new voice carried over the shrieking din. "Enough!"

Blake knew that voice. It burned through the pain-haze, drew him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

I'm not helpless, he told himself. Not a child. Not prey.

He drew a breath, choked and spat blood. He heaved Alain's weight aside and pushed himself up, fighting the urge to vomit again. Blood trickled into one eye, splashing bright as rubies against the floor. Through red-webbed lashes he watched a white-robed man cross the room.

"You've had your entertainment," the man said, looking up at the throne. His voice was the velvet warmth from Blake's dreams. "Now if you'll excuse us, it's time these children went home."

The gargoyles on the dais had held so still that Blake had almost forgotten them-now they stirred, unfurling wings the color of decay.

:You trespa.s.s: They spoke in unison. The woman in white had vanished from the dais, leaving the King alone in his chair.

"I don't belong here, it's true, but neither do your guests. Give them to me and I'll trouble you no more."

Blake heard the thunder of wings, but Alain leaned over him, blocking his view. "Let them play. You didn't answer my question." His smile bared too many teeth. "Don't you want to be something more? Or do you like being fragile and broken?"

In response, Blake punched him again. Something crunched-his hand or Alain's face, he wasn't sure which. Pain traveled up his arm, warm and sweet. "How's that?"

The false Alain grinned. Blood black as tar leaked from his nose, seeped between his sharp, sharp teeth. "Much better! I knew you had it in you somewhere." He lunged, quick as a snake, too fast for Blake to dodge. But instead of a blow, he pulled Blake close and kissed him.

Sharp teeth shredded Blake's lips and Alain's tongue slid hot against his, bittersweet and sticky with blood. Hands slipped under his coat, tugging at his shirt b.u.t.tons. Thread snapped; nails sc.r.a.ped his skin. And even now, after everything, he arched into the touch with a gasp, inhaling Alain's b.l.o.o.d.y breath. He clenched a hand in Alain's hair, dragging his face away.