Rising Darkness (A GAME OF SHADOWS NOVEL) (14 page)

She remembered that she was thirsty, opened the bottle of water and drank. After she’d had enough she hesitated then held the bottle out to him. He took it. “Why do I feel that you and the—wind spirit, as you called it—are right and I’m dying?” she asked. “Aside from some scrapes and bruises, there’s nothing physically wrong with me. And what did you do to me, back there by my car?”

“As far as the difference between you dying, and me killing you goes . . .” He blew out a short sharp gust of air, an exhalation of frustration, and she tensed in dread. “If I killed you, I would only be killing your body. What you’re suffering from is much more serious than a wound of the flesh. Somehow you’ve taken a wound of the spirit. If you expire from the spirit wound, you will be destroyed. Gone. You won’t exist any longer, so you could never be reborn.”

Spirit and body. Death and rebirth. Her lips felt numb. She rubbed her mouth. Gretchen had talked of spirits. “Are you talking about reincarnation?”

“Yes, or at least some form of it.” He glanced at her. “We don’t exactly lead typical lives.”

“We.” Her hand migrated upward. She rubbed at her dry eyes. He was grouping her with himself, and with this woman named Astra. Who were these people? Who did he think she was? Did he believe they were some kind of soul group that chose to reincarnate and live their lives together? Disorientation yanked at her. She felt unmoored and drifting, like she was coming apart at the seams.

He continued, “If your energy is dispersed, you—the spirit essence of you—will be gone forever. There would be no rebirth for you, no chance at another life. So you see, there is the physical death. Then there is the real death, the permanent one, from which there is no coming back.” He took a deep harsh breath. “What I was doing to you when you woke up . . . picture an arterial wound, only it’s a spiritual one and you’re bleeding to death. I gave you an infusion of my blood, or my energy, in the real sense. It’s strengthened you and we’ve gained some time, but it hasn’t closed the wound or stopped the bleeding. For that, we need the woman we’re going to see. She understands far better what has happened to you. She has the skills to heal you.”

The physician in her took over. “Wait, to use your analogy, if you killed me,” she said, “wouldn’t my spirit still bleed to death, so to speak?”

“Actually,” he said in a tired voice, “in some ways your spirit would be easier to heal if you were dead. You could make the journey north to Astra in a matter of moments. She could heal you. You could rest and then you could be reborn. But there are . . . other reasons why that isn’t an attractive option.”

Outrage held her frozen for a moment. Attractive option. How about like I don’t want to die, you son of a bitch? Is that one of your reasons? Struggling with her unruly emotions, she wrapped her fingers around the edges of the jacket he’d lent to her.

Finally she managed to say, “I’m pretty tired of being scared.”

“I know it’s asking a lot but try not to worry too much, at least about that,” he said. “As long as you are with me, I can infuse you with energy when you need it. When we get to Astra, she can heal you. You won’t die of that wound if we have anything to say about it. And we have a lot to say about it.”

“Astra,” she murmured. She was not just tired of being scared. She was also just plain tired. She leaned her head against her window. Astra, in Greek, meant star. “Do you know how I got injured in the first place?”

“What I know is that it happened a very long time ago,” he said. The caution had come back into his voice. “Lifetimes ago. It might be better if you tried to remember what happened for yourself.”

Somewhere along the line she had stopped being quite so terrified of him.

That might or might not be a good thing. She simply didn’t have the reserves to sustain such an exhausting emotion. Whether or not she believed anything he said was a different matter. She shelved that for another time when she could think about it in private. For now she suspended disbelief and tried to absorb what he chose to tell her.

“I went to visit the Grotto at Notre Dame University today,” she said. “Do you know where that is?”

“Notre Dame is in South Bend, right?”

“Yes. Anyway, I—well, I prayed for help, and I had a vision,” she said. “This lady told me I had to remember who I was, and that I needed to find her. She said I needed to travel north. At the time I wondered if she might be the Virgin Mary.”

“Maybe she was,” Michael said, surprising her. “But from what you’re telling me, it sounds more likely that she was Astra.”

Wait—was he saying that the Virgin Mary could actually exist? She stared. Concepts were coming at her too fast. Was she intrigued or disappointed that her vision might not have been the Holy Virgin? She caught up with what he said. “Astra could do that, make some kind of bodiless visitation?”

“Astral projection? Yes. But it’s exhausting, especially across long distances. She would only do it in an emergency, and if she was safe enough to recover from it afterward. She’s too important to risk.”

“Astral . . . But . . . How would she know to find me?”

“You’ve been blazing like a beacon in the psychic landscape ever since this afternoon. She might have traced you that way. I focused on finding you in the physical realm. I couldn’t afford the time or the energy on an astral projection.” He shook his head, took one hand off the steering wheel and rubbed at his neck. “We’ve been afraid something like this would happen. We’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

Blazing like a beacon since this afternoon. She remembered the sense of something vital tearing open and shuddered.

“How long were you looking?” she breathed. Was he talking years?

“Lifetimes,” he said. The brief reply blasted away her assumptions and shook her to the core all over again. “We know our enemy has been looking for you too, but it’s been like you’ve been hidden behind a veil. We’ve gotten brief glimpses of you and your life, but we never got quite enough information to find you until today. Today it felt like you ripped past the veil yourself. My guess is that’s what reopened your spirit wound, because you couldn’t have been bleeding like this your entire life. If you had been born like this, you would have died in a matter of days.”

“That beacon you mentioned. Is that how those two men were able to find me? No,” she said, in answer to her own question. “That doesn’t make sense. My house had to have caught fire before I prayed in the Grotto. The blaze was too far along by the time I saw it on the news.”

“It could be that your house isn’t connected to this,” he said. “Maybe the fire is just a coincidence.”

She heard the lack of conviction in his voice, and she was not reassured. “You think it’s more likely that your enemy was closer to finding me than you two were?”

“Anything’s possible,” he replied. “Especially that.”

“Why burn down my house? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to wait until I got home? It’s not,” she said in a caustic voice, “like I’ve had a clue about what I’ve been doing, or what’s really going on.”

“We don’t have enough facts yet to answer that question. But if your house fire was arson, most fires are started to hide something. It could also have been set to draw you back home, although that reason on its own seems excessive when all someone would have to do is wait for you to return.”

“I saw the fire on the news. I had contacted the police and was starting to return home when those two men attacked.” She rubbed her shaking mouth. She whispered, “What they did was excessive. There was no reason for it. They didn’t have to kill those people. They were brutal because they liked it.”

“Our adversary is like that. He enjoys cruelty, and he feeds on pain.” His profile had turned harsh, the bones of his face slicing through the shadows thrown by the dashboard lights. “When he creates his tools, he destroys something essential in their souls. They can still function but they no longer have a moral code, or creativity or any real free will, or whatever it is that makes them human.”

She closed her eyes. What kind of creature had the power to destroy someone’s soul? It was appalling, too much. She had to give up on the puzzle for now. She thought she ought to give up on all of it and try to rest. Her body and soul, or spirit, as Michael had said, felt frayed almost to tatters. Even though she had fallen into that black pit earlier, it had only been for a couple of hours. Her dreams had been so restless and vivid she had gained no real refreshment from it.

Her dreams.

A sudden flood of memory brought back the dream of the wounded woman. Like the sacred poison dream, the wounded woman was another recurring dream that she’d had throughout her life. Blood-shot and filled with disturbing imagery, she had tended to dream it only in times of great stress.

And her dreams . . .

Her breathing roughened, became erratic. Michael’s jacket no longer provided welcome warmth but became a stifling restriction. She couldn’t get enough air inside her lungs. She fumbled to unlatch her seat belt and struggle out of the jacket, and she began to claw her way out her T-shirt.

“Okay, easy,” Michael said, his voice sharp. “You need to take deep, slow breaths. Try not to fight it.”

She heard his words but not their meaning. All her attention was focused inward where an immense heat blazed up. She was burning to death. She felt suspended in time as though she had waited all her life in a silence so profound it seemed to roar, waited to hear the first sonorous clang of a terrible gong.

Remember who you are.

My dreams are real.

And she was racing back in her mind to the small child she had been, and what that child had said to upset her mother so badly, she had learned to bury it and eventually forget, and how ever afterward her mind would slide away from that memory because it was such a bad, bad thing. . . .

Mommy, I had the strangest dream, she had said.

I dreamed I was human.

Unspeakable loss welled up inside her again, only this time it was deeper and stronger than ever before. This time it wasn’t held at a distance or tucked behind a veil. It roared into her like a tsunami, and she cried out and doubled over from the force of it.

Chapter Twelve

EXHAUSTED BY HER
long-distance astral journey to talk to Mary, Astra rested on her narrow bed under a pile of every blanket in her bedroom, but she still couldn’t get warm. A deep chill had settled into her aching bones last winter, and it had never gone away. Despite all her best efforts, her body was wearing out. She knew part of the reason why was her spirit was as worn as her flesh.

There used to be some things that mattered to her more than existence. Sometimes now it seemed neither existence nor those things mattered at all.

Time and again the group had struggled, and for what? They died and they died, and now some of them were gone forever.

Raphael and Gabriel. Ariel and Uriel. All destroyed beyond reclaiming.

A tear rolled down her cheek, sliding down the furrows and creases of her face.

A gentle tap sounded at her doorway. “Grandmother?”

She wiped the tear away and turned her head. “What is it?”

Jamie still refused to lift his head and look directly at her. “Your light was still on,” he said. “I wanted to ask you if you needed anything.”

“No.” She needed nothing this kind child could give her. “How is your grandpa?”

He shuffled his feet and cleared his throat, and said hopefully, “He’s resting well. I think his color looks better.”

“Good.” She said it like she believed that Jerry’s condition would improve, or like she cared anymore. Jerry wasn’t getting better, and she didn’t. He would be dead in a week, and she didn’t care about any of the people on this earth anymore. She wanted to go home. “Go to bed, boy,” she said in a rusty-sounding voice. “You’ll not be of any use to your grandpa if you don’t get some sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated as if about to say something else but then, for a mercy, he kept silent and turned away.

At last, filled with dread, she crept into sleep.

She dreamed. She had known she would.

She stood in a dry wasteland devoid of any green or growing thing. There was no wind, no day or night, just a vast barren grayness. Even when her dream self closed her eyes, she saw the image of the gray landscape. If she had been in control of the dream, she would have changed the landscape to add color and life, but she wasn’t in control. This wasn’t her dream.

She waited in despair for what would happen next.

A figure appeared and strolled toward her. It shone with a ferocious black light. In its hands it held an agonized slip of lavender mist.

Old woman
, the Deceiver said.

She looked at the wind spirit he held and recognized it immediately. It was the one she had sent to help Mary. She said,
This is unbelievably petty, even for you
.

I promised you a long time ago
, the figure said.
You remember, don’t you? I will destroy every creature that you hold dear, even down to the smallest one.

Creator, have mercy, not for me but for your fragile child who is in such pain.

Forgive, forgive.

She didn’t bother to try to gather her strength. She had none, and she couldn’t have acted even if she had. Neither she nor the Deceiver could actually hurt or touch each other in this dream, for it was merely a sending, a message filled with events that had already occurred. He liked to show her his executions.

The black radiant figure took the wind spirit in both hands and savaged it to shreds. The delicate creature had no defense. It made a muffled whimper as it was destroyed almost instantly.

The Deceiver showed her its empty hands.
Until next time, bitch.

How many times must she be summoned to this killing field?

The world wasn’t large enough to contain her grief.