Dreams of Shreds and Tatters Part 24

"Yes," the impostor hissed, the cables in his neck standing taut. "That's it. Hit me. Hurt me. Isn't that what you want? Isn't that what you know best?"

Blake rolled, pinning the false Alain against the floor. His hands ached with the effort of not giving him what he asked for. "No."

"Then run." Alain lay back, hands held wide in a gesture of surrender. Purple-black hair drifted around his blood-streaked face. "Who knows, maybe you'll even win free. But every time you think of your poor dead boy, you'll really be thinking of me."

Blake's vision tunneled until all he could see was blood on ecru skin, the jump of Alain's pulse in his slender throat. This was what it looked like from the other side.

His fists clenched. But if he gave in, he wouldn't stop. And that was exactly what the impostor wanted. Instead he scrambled to his feet and ran to help Liz.

Alain's mocking laughter followed him.

LIZ FOUGHT, BUT the crowd kept coming. They wore suits and gowns, satin and velvet and jewels, but beneath the finery they were the same baccha.n.a.l procession she'd glimpsed in the streets of Carcosa. Hooved and horned and clawed, men with goat legs or goat heads, women with hyena teeth. They howled and laughed as they surrounded her.

The ring blazed on her hand, sword and shield all at once. Bone and cartilage crunched as she drove her boot into a muzzled face. Adrenaline sang in her blood, and for one terrible moment she felt strong. Her veins burned, a sensation that moved through panic and into something wild and electric.

But even armed and armored, there was only one of her and too many of them. Talons tangled in her hair; teeth sc.r.a.ped against leather, tore through it to reach the flesh beneath. Maenads and satyrs fell beneath her shining blade, but more came on, wave after wave. Liz screamed and kicked and bit, drove her elbow into something's ribs and broke a laughing woman's nose.

The laughter never stopped. It wasn't until her throat began to ache that she realized she was laughing too. Her skin felt wrong, too tight and tingling, blood surging hot. Was this desire? The l.u.s.t that drove the world? s.e.x and death and madness-Carcosa would teach her all of them if it could.

The wall of leering faces opened and clutching hands gave way. For an instant Liz felt alone and bereft, cold without the press of flesh. Then she fell and cracked her head on the tiles. Colors burst behind her eyes and a roar of static drowned the cries of the bacchante.

With doubled vision she watched Blake break through the crowd. Two Blakes tossed bodies aside. Two Blakes throttled two unlucky satyrs. Blood splashed his hands and face, clotted in his hair; she couldn't tell how much of it was his. She tried to shout, but his name was a wet sound in her throat. She spat pink-streaked phlegm and called again.

"Blake!" He turned and it took all her resolve not to flinch. Black oozed across his eyes like tar, swallowing grey and white alike. Dark veins stood out in his sunken cheeks. "Let him go," she said, climbing painfully to her feet. "It's not worth it."

He looked down at the body sagging in his grip and flung it away with a shudder. "You're hurt." Even his voice was darker, thicker.

"I'll be fine." Probably a lie, but she didn't have time to inventory her wounds. Blood trickled down her face and throat, dripped from her hands, but her throbbing left hand eclipsed any lesser pain. The white mantle was a lost cause, but the scarab pin still gleamed on her shoulder.

She expected the bacchante to attack again, but they were breaking up into a dozen writhing brawls and tangles, or shrieking and swinging one another around in a dance. Across the room, Seker stood before the throne, beset by the King's winged guards.

Her vision, already swimming, blurred again. Where Seker had been she saw a swirling darkness, a thousand eyes gleaming red and gold and green amid a vast tenebrous shape. Then the moment pa.s.sed and he was a man again.

"Who is that?" Blake asked, spitting blood.

"Seker. He's a friend. I hope. He's with me, either way." She reached out to wipe at his b.l.o.o.d.y face, but only smeared more gore between them. Silver gleamed beneath crimson, and she twisted the ring off her swelling thumb.

"This is yours."

He took it from her and slipped it onto his finger. "How did you-"

"I'll explain later. You didn't eat any pomegranates, did you?"

His smile looked like a grimace, but he laughed. "No."

"Then let's get out of here."

Hand in hand they ran. It wasn't until they reached the doors that Liz realized her mistake: running meant prey, and the hunters had given chase once more. The door swung shut on the sound of pursuit, and they fled into the halls of the labyrinth.

The maze had changed. The mirrors had vanished, as had the b.l.o.o.d.y handprints she'd left on the way in. No thread to lead them back. The corridor branched and they stumbled up a narrow flight of stairs.

"How do we get out of here?" Blake gasped.

"Do you have the silver shoes?"

"d.a.m.n. I thought you did."

They laughed because they had to, though it wasted precious breath. They climbed, and ran, and climbed again, while howls and laughter grew closer at their heels. Her legs burned; her lungs burned; Blake's footsteps began to falter.

She stumbled when the stair ended. They stood on a broad balcony overlooking the sea. Only a narrow ledge of stone stood between them and the long drop to the black water below. There was nowhere to go but back, or down.

Liz let out a sobbing breath. Beside her, Blake moaned. They stood side by side, staring out at the drop.

"We tried," he whispered.

"We're not finished yet." But she could barely stand. Dream or no dream, she hurt all over, and blood loss left her cold and queasy. Could she fight again when the hunters reached them?

"This is my fault," Blake said. "You never should have come after me."

Liz straightened. The cold chemical wind whipped her hair into her eyes. "Don't be an idiot. I'm not giving up."

Snarls and howls drifted up the stairs, the echoes of feet and hooves. Liz inched closer to the railing and looked down. The sea below was lost in haze and distance. Beyond the black water, a crimson line burned across the horizon. Aldebaran was rising. She swallowed. "This is a dream."

Blake's eyes narrowed, a familiar gesture around alien black irises. "Liz-"

"How do you wake up from a dream?"

"You're not serious."

"Do you have a better idea?" She set one foot on the low railing, bracing herself against the wind. The snarling din of the bacchante was almost on them. She held out her hand.

Blake took it. Blood pasted their skin together. He stepped onto the ledge.

"One, two, and through."

They stepped into nothing.

ALEX TRIED TO keep a vigil beside Liz that night, but eventually exhaustion stole over him and he drowsed in the uncomfortable chair by the bed.

He woke with a start hours later, a ceramic crash echoing in his ears. He'd dropped a mug of tea; shards and cold dregs splattered the floor at his feet. But that wasn't the only thing that had woken him-something had changed.

Liz's breath. The harsh rasp that had lulled him to sleep had stilled.

His pulse spiked. He'd waited too long- "Alex?"

He froze, nerves stretched and charged with shock and fear. For a moment he wasn't sure the sound was a human voice, let alone his name. Then he leaned forward, reaching for the lamp, dreading what the light would reveal.

"Liz?" He flinched from the sudden brightness, flinched again when he saw the pallor of her face. But a natural pallor, no black veins or sallow tones. Her eyes were open, glittering bright as gla.s.s.

"Liz-" He fell to his knees beside the bed, heedless of the broken cup. He caught her hand, pressing careful fingers against the vein in her wrist. Her pulse was quick, but stronger than it had been. Her hair and skin were damp with sweat, but her brow had lost its fevered heat. The room still stank of illness, but the bandages on her left hand were clean, smelling sharply of antibiotic oinment. "Are you all right?"

Of all the stupid things to ask, but her chapped lips cracked with a smile and her fingers tightened around his. She whispered his name. Then she was asleep again, still gripping his hand.

19.

Open to the Dark

"IT'S NO USE. He's still flatline."

"It's been five minutes."

Blake woke to darkness and voices. The darkness filled him-it would burst through his eyes if he opened them, tear open his throat if he tried to scream. His skin was too tight, his skull too small to hold all the pain. The voices moved around him, shouting things he couldn't understand. Hands touched him, always hands, an endlessly repeating h.e.l.l of hands.

"Clear!"

Electricity hit him, a kick to the chest, searing every nerve. The world washed white as he convulsed. A scream clawed its way up from the pit of his stomach, ripping out of his mouth with such force he thought his jaw would break. Fire raced under his skin, through his veins, burning him to ash. Other voices joined the scream, all underscored by a shrill mechanical shriek.

Then it stopped, a silence so abrupt he felt deaf. Blake opened his eyes, but the world was a kaleidoscope of spinning lights and shadow. The hands were gone, but tentacles still held him, worming under his skin. A slick plastic tube ripped out of his nose as he flailed, and he gagged as it snaked up his throat. Another stung his arm as he ripped it away, and the smell of blood blossomed bright and hot. Beneath that he smelled harsh chemical disinfectant. A hospital. How had he ended up here?

He yanked at another tube on his thigh, realizing his mistake too late. Warning pressure gave way to pain, like fishhooks through his groin, and the smell of urine cut through the layered stink. He opened his mouth to scream but vomited instead, doubling over the cold metal bed-rail. Watery bile dripped down his chin.

His legs folded beneath him when he tried to stand and he sprawled on the floor, curling helplessly around the agony in his crotch. The fluorescent lights stuttered fitfully. People shouted in the distance and running footsteps shivered through the cold linoleum. Cramps knotted his calves.

He groped for the edge of the bed, a chair, anything to pull himself up. Instead his hand fell on flesh, and he jerked away with a startled yelp. A woman in hospital scrubs curled on the floor an arm's reach away, her wide eyes fixed somewhere beyond him. Her mouth moved, shaping words, but no sound came out. Blood trickled sluggishly from her nose, dripping into her mouth and down her chin. Blake reached for her, moved his hand in front of her eyes, but she didn't react. When he sat up, he saw two other bodies fallen beside the bed, another woman and a man: they didn't move at all.

Blake bit his lip against a whimper, turning away from the woman's blind stare. Tears filmed his eyes, turning everything into a flickering blur. Blood oozed from his wrist; pink-streaked p.i.s.s leaked down his thigh; a dull ache throbbed behind his sternum. Finally he hooked one hand on the bed frame and pulled himself to his knees. He was too weak to stand, let alone run, but if he didn't get away from the pain and the lights and the noise he would start sobbing and never stop.

Something stirred inside him, cold and dark. An anesthetic tingle spread through his limbs, soothing his cramping legs, steadying him as he hauled himself to his feet. He didn't trust this strange chilly strength, but it whispered at him to run, and he couldn't argue with that.

He flung open doors and cabinets until he found his clothes, leaning against the wall as he struggled into jeans and sweater. His fingers trembled too badly to lace his boots.

The corridor was a confusion of shouting and alarms and running nurses. No one bothered him as he staggered down the hall, except to push past. What had happened? He didn't stop to ask. All that mattered was escape. Through the maze of hallways and clamor of the lobby, into the clean, scathing night.

Lions Gate, he realized as he reached the sidewalk. North Van. City lights blazed white and gold, blue and green, mirrored in the black water of Burrard Inlet. A chiaroscuro blur through his watering eyes.

His strength didn't last long. A block from the hospital he slipped on icy pavement and sprawled into a gutter full of frozen slush. He crawled across the sidewalk, too weak to stand again, and huddled against a dark shop front. Sirens screamed nearby.

The sky over Lions Gate seethed with shadows, winged shapes spiraling through the clouds like giant bats.

The monsters from the cabin.

Headlights cut the night open. Blake flinched, expecting an ambulance, police, but the car that pulled up to the curb was sleek and black, its windows midnight mirrors. The back door swung open.

"Get in," a man called.

Blake moved closer in spite of himself, drawn by rich, familiar tones. The door opened wider and the streetlight slanted across the curve of a shaven head, gleamed in one pearl-black eye.

"Please," the man Liz had called Seker said. "Get in. Unless you came all this way to freeze to death."

Blake laughed. Or maybe it was a sob. He climbed into the warmth of the car.

LIZ FLOATED ON the edge of sleep, drifting in a warm red sea. She didn't hurt; she wasn't afraid. That was important, but she couldn't remember what had ever scared or pained her. Surf beat in her ears. There was a word for that soft whispering sound, a word she used to know, but it was a hole in her memory now, like the empty socket of a tooth. The sensation filled her with a sadness she couldn't explain.

You did it, didn't you? Alice's wet voice coiled around her. You solved the puzzle, faced the dragon, saved the princess. Now what? Closure? Resolution? Happily ever after? The words were mocking, but veined with something soft and wistful.

Liz woke with a dizzy start, all her peace undone. Tears leaked down her cheeks. "It doesn't work that way," she whispered. She wasn't sure if she was talking to Alice or herself.

The room was dark and silent. Blankets weighed on her, stifling, but the air drifting across her face was cold. Her skin itched with dried sweat; her scalp crawled.

What had happened? The last thing she remembered was Blake's hand in hers, the rush of falling and the whiplash crack of tumbling out of the dreamlands. Her joints ached and her muscles felt weak and stiff, as if she hadn't moved them in days. Her head was stuffed with something-old socks, by the taste in her mouth- and her tongue was a slab of dry meat. Sore back, numb toes, aching bladder: her body's list of complaints grew longer with every pa.s.sing minute.

Where was she? Not the hotel, not a hospital. Not Carcosa, and that was what really mattered. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she recognized Alex's familiar outline slumped in a chair at the foot of the bed, his head propped on one hand.

Her good hand twitched, nails snagging on the weave of the blanket. She held something in her palm, a small, unfamiliar shape. Her knuckles crackled as she opened her fingers. A gold and lapis scarab bounced against her chest, gleaming in the dim light. Blake's ring was gone.

She made a soft, wondering noise and Alex stirred. Liz closed her hand around the brooch again and tucked it out of sight.

"Liz-" Something inside her untwisted as he said her name.

"I did it," she said. Dry lips cracked and stung. She'd never been so thirsty.

"What did you do, besides scare me half to f.u.c.king death?" His voice was tired and thin.

"I found Blake." She tried to sit up, but slumped against the pillows again, weak as a newborn kitten. Movement woke the pain in her left hand, sharp and hot and sickening. She twitched her fingers and gasped as torn skin stretched. Rosettes of blood spotted the bandage.

Alex switched on a lamp and she winced at the sight of his face. His eyes were shadowed and sunken, naked without his gla.s.ses. His hair hung lank against pale, splotchy cheeks. She could see the effort each breath cost him.

"You're sick."

He waved it aside with an angry gesture. "That doesn't matter. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you talk to me before..."

Liz propped herself up again, with better success this time. "Because you would have tried to stop me, and I couldn't explain it to you."

"You could have tried."

Her lips thinned. "Would you have tried to believe me?"